


Malabar Trade

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Picaresque-verse [5]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-21
Updated: 2005-04-12
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: Posted to LiveJournal in 2005 by Tessabeth, ported to AO3 fourteen years later by GloriaThe sequel to Picaresque and Trochal . Warning - contains wild quantities of spoilers for "The Confusion" - though, hey, so did Trochal :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to LiveJournal in 2005 by Tessabeth, ported to AO3 fourteen years later by Gloria
> 
>  
> 
> _The sequel to Picaresque and Trochal . Warning - contains wild quantities of spoilers for "The Confusion" - though, hey, so did Trochal :)_

The ship is a huge black spectre, floating on a glassy sea so gorgeously translucent that the tall, sandy-haired man who lies along her bowsprit can see right down to the sandy bottom, can see darting schools of bright fish beneath him; the optickal illusion of shallowness that the water creates would make him nervous of running aground, if he didn’t have a perfectly ludicrous level of confidence in his fellow seafarers in general, and his captain in particular, and therefore it never occurs to him.

But he’s not really paying any attention to that beautiful clear water. He’s used to it. Instead, he’s squinting suspiciously at the shoreline, where the water shallows and warms, and dirty green mangroves (managing to be both dense and scrappy at the same time) obscure whatever manner of thing might be hiding there.

“See? Nothing,” says a voice behind him, but he doesn’t turn.

“So _you_ say,” he says; “But _I_ say it’s probably infested with the bloody things.”

The man behind him, one Captain Jack Sparrow, heaves an irritable sigh and squirms, feeling the weight of the equatorial sun pressing heavy upon his bare back. “Jack, my love,” he says, with an edge of sarcastic patronisation that makes the blond fellow scowl and grit his teeth, “It’s _awfully_ hot, and I’m confident that your eagle eyes would alert me, should one of your dreaded beasts take it into its head to come and attempt to sample my… wares. So I think, on balance, I shall take my chances, and swim; but I promise not to go far, and I also promise to pay you my attention, should you try to attract it.”

This declaration makes the blond man, whose name, as will have been noted, is—rather confusingly—also Jack (though, luckily, he does have a surname of his own, being Shaftoe) wriggle back onto the deck, with some alacrity, and he grabs Jack Sparrow’s arm as that gentleman is in the act of turning from him, and of throwing a battered leather tricorne to the scorching black boards of the deck.

“You shall do no such thing!” Jack Shaftoe says, with a definite note of menace.

Sparrow freezes in his grip, and turns slowly, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. “I _beg_ your pardon, Mr Shaftoe?” he enquires, with a silky politeness. “Did I just hear you _forbid_ me to take a swim?”

The two men stare at one another for a moment; for the first part of which, they are balanced on a knife edge of anger, spiced with something baser and more intriguing; and that intrigue makes Jack Sparrow’s lip curl, just a little, such a very little that any other person might not notice it. But Jack Shaftoe’s attention is drawn very easily, and very reliably, by any movement of Sparrow’s mouth, be it never so delicate, and he sees the curl, and his tongue darts out of its own accord, wetting his bottom lip; and that makes Sparrow smile a little, and _that_ makes Shaftoe smile a lot. And thus the moment passes, the frisson of anger evaporates, but the base, intriguing _something_ remains; remains in the light in Sparrow’s eye, remains in the tight grip of Shaftoe’s long strong fingers around the other man’s wiry, muscled arm, remains in the sudden tautness of two flat, brown bellies.

“It’s a brave man who’ll forbid a pirate captain to do as he wishes,” says Sparrow.

“It’s a foolish man who’ll swim with crocodiles.”

“You’ve managed it; besides which, _there ain’t any here_ , Jack.”

“Would you bet your life ‘pon that?”

Jack Sparrow’s life; it has some strange and weighty significance to these two, that much is clear, and for a moment the pirate doesn’t reply. And then he’s lost the chance of doing so, for a noisy rumble of feet come pounding along the deck, accompanied by shouts and laughter, and in the next moment a long-limbed, bare-chested young man, barely more than a boy, has leapt up onto the gunwale, holding onto one of the stays for support, and he cries to his pursuers, “You shall have to catch me first, gentlemen!”

“Don’t go in the—!” shouts Jack Shaftoe, but he’s too late; the boy has dived, backwards, off the ship and into the lucid blue. The two Jacks run to the railing and look down; there he is, clearly visible under the cool water, and Jack Sparrow stamps and bares his teeth, overcome by envy. They are joined almost instantly by two strapping young fellows who could surely only be related to Jack Shaftoe, and indeed are, being his twin offspring, and who are wriggling out of their clothing as fast as ever they can.

“Boys!” says Shaftoe, attempting paternal severity, a tone which does not come particularly naturally to him, “Do _not_ , under any circumstances, go in the water!”

The one with the longer hair just shakes his head; the shorter-haired says, “You’re so full o’ shite, Dad; crocodiles, my arse,” and disappears over the side, rapidly joined by his brother.

“There you go, Jack,” says Jack Sparrow, and shucks off his breeches. “That’s just reduced my chances of being eaten by a factor of four, surely? They’re bound to go for one of those sweet young striplings before they’ll resort to me, and I can be out of the water by then.” And he winks at Shaftoe, and is gone, barely a splash marking his entry into the sea.

Nothing in Jack Shaftoe’s life has prepared him for playing this role, of father, of protector, of _worrier_ in place of _warrior_ ; he is notably competent at the latter, but the former sits uneasy upon him, and has only really entered his consciousness in recent times. Since he had something to lose. It makes him act in ways that even he can recognise are counter to his nature and inclination, ways which he knows he doesn’t admire in others, and so is hardly likely to admire in himself. This makes him rather irritable.

He leans over the side of the ship, watching the sleek brown bodies of his sons, pursuing William Turner, who is not really so hard to catch, but once caught, is permitted to escape just so that Jimmy and Danny can resume the chase. Jack Sparrow floats apart from all this commotion, a lazy starfish, eyes closed against the burn of the sun, and Jack watches him with hungry eyes. It is near a month, now, since he found this man again, after twenty years, and a strange and glorious month it has been, in which Jack’s life has taken a serious detour from its anticipated path. This, in and of itself, does not bother Jack, who is nothing if not adaptable; but he is still in the process of adapting himself to being… loved, in this way.

“Went in anyway, did they?” says a pretty young woman (it can’t be hidden, though she dresses as a man), sidling up beside Jack.

“Aye,” he says, and checks the shoreline again, for approaching ripples, or shapes, or bulging eyes above the surface of the water.

“You shouldn’t worry so, it’d be a foolhardy beast that’d try to eat _him_ ,” she says, with a nod to her captain.

“Ah, you’d be surprised, he ain’t so unpalatable,” says Jack, with a grin, which disappears when she says, with a raised eyebrow, “Not as surprised as you might imagine.”

“Is there anyone on this tub who _hasn’t_ had a bite of him, AnaMaria?” he demands, and she laughs, and tells him not to fret, it was only a bit of fun, and long ago.

“Bit of fun, you say?” mutters Jack Shaftoe, struck with peevish jealousy. “Well, then, how’s _this_ for a bit of fun?” He pulls a pistol from his breeches and hefts it in his hand for a moment, and then leans over the side and, with every appearance of sudden terror, shouts, “Jack! Jack, Jesus Christ, Jack, lads, they’re coming! They’re fucking coming! There, _there_!”

His scream is quite horrifying, as he flings out a pointing arm, his face lit red by fear, veins bulging on his neck as he shouts, and AnaMaria has to duck down to hide her hysterical laughter, which is a terrible shame, because she can hear the splashing panic below, and would love, just love, to be able to see it; “Where? Where?” she can hear Sparrow shouting back, and Shaftoe—the man has a wonderful talent for dramaturgy—screams, “That way, oh Christ they’re fast, where’s Danny, where’s Danny, Jack?” and then, mad creature, fires into the water beyond the swimmers, occasioning even more panic; AnaMaria is now rolling on the deck, weak with laughter, but manages to hand up her own firearm to Shaftoe, because that’s a trick worth repeating, and so he does, and screams, “I got it Jack, but oh god it’s angry now, come on, come on, they can jump yards from the water!”

Jimmy’s the first up the sea ladder, and Will Turner the last, and they clamber aboard sodden and panting, steam rising from the black boards where the water drips from them; Jack Shaftoe, in a fine show of relief, clutches each one to his breast, crying, “Thank God, oh thank God and all the apostles too!”

“Why, no, thank _you_ ,” says Turner, with sweet sincerity, and then he notices the girl, huddled red-faced and teary-eyed, a tremble about her lips, and for a confused moment clearly thinks her terribly upset; but quick Jack Sparrow’s onto it straight away, and when they see the look on his face, Jimmy and Danny realise it the same. Turner takes another moment to understand, and then looks at Jack Shaftoe as if he cannot quite believe such a wicked trick could be played.

“You fookin’ _bastard_!” cries Danny, and at that, Jack Shaftoe’s mask of panic is abandoned, and he starts to laugh; Ana starts up again, and the two of ‘em roll about, clutching their stomachs, as the four wet and panting men look on in disgust.

“Don’t worry, lads,” says Jack Sparrow darkly, “He’ll pay for that.”

*

They have been sailing for a week or more along the coast of Kerala, a generally north-west course which, if continued, would bring them to Malabar. The advisability of this, as a destination, is the subject of heated discussion over their sunset dinner on the quarterdeck. It’s too hot to bear, down below, until the evening breeze comes up and blows away the worst of the day’s heat.

“It’s full of _pirates_ ,” says Jack Shaftoe for the hundredth time, and Sparrow, Gibbs, and AnaMaria all give him exactly the same Look, which explains, _so’s this ship_.

“And crocodiles,” says Jack, just to wind them up in response to that Look. Will Turner, at the helm, swings round with narrowed eyes and a Look of his own which is loaded with a message of incipient bodily harm.

“Well, I take your points under advisement, Jack, but, all those things considered,” says Sparrow, cross-legged and waving a bottle about to illustrate his point, “we are still in need of provisioning, before we start the long haul to Madagascar. And we are already running low on certain necessities of life. Such as _food_ , and more importantly, _grog_ , because your friends, back in Queena-Kootah, were quite markedly inhospitable when it came down to it, were they not?”

“That’s true enough,” Jack admits, “but I’ve no reason to think that the Malabaris will be any less so. I’ve a bit of a… history, there. With the Queen. The _Pirate_ Queen. The _very powerful and scary_ Pirate Queen. Kottakkal.”

Jack Sparrow’s eyes widen in anticipation of the details of the story, but they are not forthcoming; instead, Jimmy Shaftoe breaks in, with, “You’re not the only one wi’ a history with Her Majesty, Dad.” And his brother adds, laughing, “Difference bein’, me an’ Jimmy could give her what she wanted, and may I say she was suitably appreciative of it, an’ all.”

“That so?” says Sparrow with a glinty grin. “Well, then, maybe she’d be more pleased to see us than not, eh?”

William Turner clears his throat and notes that, in this instance, he’s with Jack Shaftoe; it doesn’t sound like the best of ports, and in any case, what’s wrong with the Maldives? Surely they can make it that far on their current supplies?

Danny laughs, and jumps up, tousling Will’s hair and bussing him on the frownlines between his eyebrows. “Ah, Jimmy, will you look at this! William has a jealous streak!”

“I’ve no such thing!”

“Don’t you worry, Will,” says Jimmy, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his head back till he can see William, upside down, “When it comes to Oriental decadence, that Pirate Queen had nothing on you, mate. You’re a whole new Book of India, so you are.”

Mr Gibbs spits a mouthful of rum and nearly chokes; Will Turner flushes ruby and stammers that he has to go, scrambling down the stairs, followed by affectionate laughter. He has mostly become accustomed to his new situation, but every now and then, it does take him by surprise, and clearly the _Pearl_ ’s First Mate is of the same mind. Sparrow slaps Gibbs on the back, and he coughs, loud and liquid.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Jimmy Shaftoe, there’s some things we really don’t care to know,” he grumbles, and Jimmy grins, and apologises rather insincerely.

“Settled, then,” says Jack Sparrow. “We need supplies; the local monarch’s fond of at least two members of our party; they, conversely, aren’t fond enough of her in return to upset any _other_ members of our party; and I daresay the crocodiles are imaginary, and all. So Malabar it is.”

Jack scowls on principle, having lost the argument, but with no real rancour. He’s already thinking ahead, as the sun goes down; thinking of the evening cool, and the dim sweetness of Jack Sparrow’s cabin, and of the pleasant menace of Sparrow’s threat of vengeance, earlier in the day. He suspects that retribution will be extracted for his jest; and moreover, that it’s a forfeit he’ll gladly pay.

*

“Hot, ain’t it?” says Jack Sparrow, conversationally, as he shoots home the bolt on his cabin door, never taking his eyes from Shaftoe’s, which are a delicious midnight blue in the dim lanternlight.

“Very,” agrees Shaftoe. “Really, very little call for… additional sources of warmth, tonight. Such as, for example, oh, that shirt you’ve got on.” He can’t keep the smirk from his face. _He’ll pay for that_ , Jack Sparrow’s remembered growl, replays itself deliciously, over and over, in his mind.

Sparrow cocks an eyebrow, and hums a little, and pulls his shirt over his head, slowly, revealing smooth tanned skin, two gold-pierced nipples, an interesting selection of scars, and a fine dark line of hair disappearing into his breeches. Shaftoe’s gut quivers. He pulls off his own clothes, roughly, dropping them to the floor, and stands boldly bare-skinned in the centre of the cabin, letting delicious anticipation swirl through him, swirl out through the smile on his face. Sparrow saunters toward him; dips one long finger into Shaftoe’s mouth, and then slides his wet fingertip over reddening lips.

“That wasn’t very nice, what you did today,” he says; “It’s hot now, and it was hot then; all I was after was a little… cooling off, mate. No call to put us in fear of our lives, was there?”

“You fucked AnaMaria,” says Shaftoe, with no real heat; he’s over it now, but it seems like a good excuse for his wickedness, so he presents it nonetheless.

“Aye, once or twice, a long while ago; but she ain’t here now, is she? Now… now, it’s just you and me, Mr Shaftoe…” And with a metallic gleam, Sparrow’s mouth swoops close, and Jack Shaftoe cannot hold in a grunt of delight at the meeting of their lips; it cannot have been more than a dozen hours since he was last given this gift, but it’s too long, oh far, far too long, and he clutches the pirate’s hard, narrow body to him, the collision of their bare chests a glorious silky promise of more close skin to come. His tongue pushes, exploratory, into Sparrow’s mouth, and is bitten gently for its pains; Sparrow’s hands are behind his head, loosening his hair from its queue; the leather tie makes a small sound as it hits the wooden floor. Shaftoe likes the sensation of his hair over his shoulders; he knows that Sparrow likes to feel it too, likes its tiny flickering tickle on his hips and belly when he’s deep in Shaftoe’s throat, and Shaftoe smiles into their kiss, happy to know this secret shorthand for his love’s desires.

“So, anyway, I owe you, is that what you’re saying?” he mutters, and Sparrow sighs, and concurs; “Oh, you owe me a great deal, you do; your hands owe me, your mouth owes me, and what’s more, I b’lieve I’ll extract payment from your gorgeous arse, an’ all.”

Shaftoe says, “Talking of which…”, and slides his hands down into Jack Sparrow’s breeches, cupping smooth curving muscle which tenses under his touch. Sparrow fumbles at his buttons, and pushes his breeches over his hips, stepping out and kicking them away, and then grinding himself briefly, deliciously, against Jack Shaftoe, from the hard hairy warmth of his thighs to the solid and sweaty muscles of his chest. He bites Shaftoe’s earlobe and demands, “Pay up, then, love; pay me what you owe...”

He pushes down on Jack Shaftoe’s broad shoulders, making his demand in a way that he could never have done before, but can do now, because _now_ , he knows this pleasure is a shared one; he thinks back to the first time that Shaftoe took him in his mouth, thinks back to the tremble in his own flesh, and the way he muttered _you don’t have to, Jack_ ; now, oh god now, he has no such qualms. Jack Shaftoe will take anything he’s given, and savour it with utter animal delight, and there are no boundaries between the two of them. Here and now, when Shaftoe pushes him down onto the bed and then bends his tousled head, Jack knows that he can let his body do just as it pleases; it can arch and push and shove and demand, and get nothing but the same desire in return.

And that is a glorious, perfect freedom, as glorious and perfect as the sight of Shaftoe’s red mouth wrapped around him, the wet sucking sound it makes, the clutch of his strong fingers on Jack’s hipbone; and then comes another sweet glory as Shaftoe pushes Jack’s knees up and apart, and slides one saliva-slicked finger back and carefully _inside_ with a determined certainty that makes Jack bite his hand to stifle what he suspected might have been a whimper, had it been permitted to emerge. He bucks upward into Shaftoe’s mouth and slams a fist into the mattress as the cunning digit inside him finds its mark, and no more than a few sweet glimmery-black moments have passed before he wants to come, oh god he wants to, and then Shaftoe makes a sound of groaning pleasure that undoes him completely, and he spends, hotly and deliciously, in Shaftoe’s throat, _oh yes oh yes oh yes!_

Shaftoe swallows, and then gently releases him; looks up and says, “That was quick, mate.”

Jack heaves a deep breath, and grins. “Why wait?” he asks, and he pulls Shaftoe up to lie atop him, his Credential digging into Jack’s belly, his mouth flushed and glistening in a way that demands a long, slow kiss before either of them should say another word.

“You could’ve waited for _me_ ,” says Shaftoe, petulant; “You as good as threatened me with a supposedly fearsome seeing-to, and now look at you.”

“Ahh,” sighs Jack, wrigglingly happy with this evidence of disappointment, “but more importantly, look at _you_ , you gorgeous man; I’m sure you can find some method of rekindling my ardour, given how much you still owe me.”

“Still?” says Shaftoe, with a roll of his eyes.

“Still,” says Jack, with a grin like a crocodile.


	2. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Two

  


Hours before the port comes into view, the building sea traffic tells them that they are near. The coastal villages cluster more and more tightly together, and the village fishing boats are joined by dhows, corvettes, galleots, all manner of vessels; the Malabaris are not precious about their ships, so long as they are fleet, and well armed. None approaches the _Pearl_ ; Jack has taken the precaution of keeping plenty of men about on deck, and flaunting his armoury, just to let them know that he’s not to be lightly trifled with.

Presently they round a prominent headland, and Jack Shaftoe, standing beside Jack at the helm, peers into the distance; “There,” he says, “where that hill rises, behind the river mouth; that’s Kottakkal’s palace, and the town beneath. And I set my Personal Guarantee on the presence of crocodiles.”

Jack raises his spyglass, and sees a typical town of these parts, a tight-knit sprawling fester of higgledy-piggledy wooden buildings; but the palace is something else again. Sat atop a high outcrop of rock, over which spreads the most delirious profusion of colour, pink and red and orange bursting wet and fecund from brightest green. It’s glorious. He likes Malabar already. The palace itself is a collection of mossy-topped domes and minarets.

Jack doesn’t often get to meet monarchs. He’s rather hoping that Jimmy and Danny will want to pay a visit, though he knows Shaftoe will fight it tooth and nail.

Shaftoe is fighting lots of things tooth and nail, recently. He’s becoming disappointingly fretful; if there’s one thing Jack’s not willing to put up with, it’s being coddled and worried about. It gives him a terrible urge to misbehave; preferably in a dangerous manner. He’d thought himself grown out of such urges, but Shaftoe surely brings it out in him, at the moment.

Still, it’s bound to take some adjustment, isn’t it? After so long apart? And didn’t Jack have an odd episode of his own, with all that writing, a while back? He smiles to himself, and slips a hand into his pocket, fingering the piece of paper in there. Jack Shaftoe’ll lighten up. Sure to.

“Jack, look,” says Shaftoe, warm and low in his ear, close enough that Jack can feel the breath of his speech, and shivers pleasantly. “That dhow, there; they’re changing course, heading our way.”

“Are they just?” mutters Jack, and turns his glass on them. It’s a sleek, fast ship, with a heavily raked stem, and many bare-chested, dark-skinned sailors can be seen in her rigging and upon her deck.

“What flag is that, a lurid gold crown on a particularly distasteful field of purple?” he queries, and Shaftoe says, “That’s _her_ banner, and I’m not sure how pleased she’d be at your assessment of its splendours.”

“Look alert, boys,” shouts Jack to his men. “Think someone wants to meet us.”

As soon as the dhow is within hailing distance, a very small shaven-headed gentleman, in a blindingly white shirt which comes down below his knees, climbs the raised poop and begins to shout something incomprehensible.

“English? English, savvy?” hollers Jack Sparrow, but the little fellow just scowls at him. “Well, I doubt you’re up for French, nor Spanish neither,” mutters Jack.

Shaftoe taps him on the shoulder, and he turns. “Sabir,” says Jack Shaftoe. “He says he brings the Queen’s greeting, and wishes to know our business.”

“Oh,” says Jack, pleasantly impressed. He hadn’t really thought of Shaftoe as a linguist; which is certainly not to say that he hadn’t thought (a lot) of Shaftoe’s tongue. “Well, then, tell him we’re here to trade and re-provision, and nothing more; merely wishing to enliven Her Majesty’s economy to the best of our meagre abilities.”

Shaftoe nods curtly, cups his hands to his mouth and bawls some horrid zargon back across the water. Jack catches the odd word that sounds French, and others vaguely Arabic; it seems to be a mixture of a multitude of tongues. The sort of babel that would evolve on, say… a slave galley, perhaps. He wonders if he can con Shaftoe into muttering that into his ear while they’re… A most distracting frisson runs through him, and he grins.

“He says we’ll be accompanied into port,” Shaftoe reports, “and not to try any funny stuff, there are archers armed with pitch-tipped arrows along the cliff top, not to mention the cannons.”

“Hmmph,” says Jack, faintly miffed at this show of mistrust, though really, he’s asking for it, turning up in a heavily armed and black-painted pirate galleon. “All right, then, tell him—”

But Shaftoe doesn’t find out Jack’s next message, for there’s another babble of Sabir issuing from the waist that is quite attracting the bald chap’s attention.

“Ah, Jaysus,” says Shaftoe, covering his eyes with a hand. “Danny!” he roars. “Shut the fuck up! I’ve got this!”

“What? What?” demands Jack, clutching at Shaftoe’s arm. “What’s he saying?” He scowls; he hates not understanding. Shaftoe’s bounding down the stairs, three at a time, and Jack flies after him.

“Danny!” Shaftoe growls, “I really, really don’t think you should be saying that!” He grabs Danny’s arm, and his son subsides, with a grin; and then the gabble starts up again, from above their heads, and they all look up to see Jimmy out on the mizzen yard, continuing the conversation. Shaftoe gapes, but before he can say a word, Jack has quite firmly advised Jimmy to cease and desist, as of right now.

Jimmy pauses, and shouts down, “Ah, calm yerself, Jack, it’s all in hand!” and then he launches back into Sabir.

Jack’s blood boils, instantly. He doesn’t stand on ceremony, as captain, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let his commands be ignored. His pistol seems to leap into his hand of its own accord, and he roars, “Mr James Shaftoe, you will be _silent_ as of this very fucking _instant_ , or I swear to God you won’t be capable of climbing down from there by yourself!”

There’s an ominous quiet as Jimmy stares down at him in disbelief, but he has shut up. Jack is unpleasantly certain that this little scene has been watched with fascination from the Malabari dhow, also.

“Now then,” says Jack, through gritted teeth. “Jimmy, get down here. Jack, a summary please, of the conversation just passed.”

“My sons,” says Shaftoe, “have requested this gentleman, who is apparently the Queen’s envoy, to advise her that the Shaftoes have returned to her shores for a visit.”

“All right,” says Jack slowly, thinking, that’s not so bad, is it?

“And further,” says Shaftoe, “that they would be pleased to visit with her Majesty; on the condition that she keep her hands to herself, this time.”

“Oh,” says Jack, and his trigger finger twitches just a little. “And what does our interlocutor’s response to this badinage appear to be?”

“I suspect he finds it at best lacking in _gallantry_ , and at worst entirely devoid of _respect_ ,” says Shaftoe, and he scowls horridly at his offspring.

“Well, just… apologise,” says Jack, and he bows to the little fellow, and gives him his most ingratiating smile. “And explain that half our crew is drunk, we are naught but vile infidels, and we’re sorry to be contaminating his harbour, et cetera; I’m sure you know the sort of thing they like to hear.”

Shaftoe clears his throat, and starts jabbering again; Jack reaches for Jimmy Shaftoe’s ear, taking it in a vicious grip, and drags him down below.

*

Cotton functions as quartermaster, and by the time they’re moored in the safe deep channel of the rivermouth, he’s produced a list of necessaries.

The dhow has put in at a long wharf, but there are dozens of other ships in the harbour, and all manner of small boats darting between and back and forth. Many are loaded down with fruit and fish, rowing out and hailing the foreign sailors, each one of them equipped with a pretty, half-naked girl, waving and calling to attract their attention. Jack’s men are most impressed with this show of hospitality, and very keen to step ashore; this enthusiasm is being further stoked by the Shaftoe boys, Jimmy still nursing a swollen ear and shooting the occasional black look t’ward his Captain.

“Ah, lads, they’re some serious goers here!” declares Danny, his quick fingers re-plaiting his queue as he talks, as if readying himself for an outing (Jack has some news for him, there). “’Tis what you call a _matriarchal society_ , Malabar; which means that the family bloodline passes through the _women_ —”

“—which means,” interrupts Jimmy, “that most of ‘em have no idea who their Da might be, and care less—”

“—which _means_ ,” says Danny, loudly, with a scowl at his brother, “that the girls put it about like mad, even the _royal_ ones. So, gents, if you’re so inclined…”

There are murmurs and grins, and lewd laughter, and the Shaftoes join in, till they hear William Turner’s voice behind them. “And what,” he says, “if you’re _not_ so inclined?”

They turn as one, flushing slightly; Will’s arms are crossed, and his eyes are narrowed. Jack Sparrow watches from the quarterdeck, amused, to see how his young friend will handle this.

“Well?” demands Will. “What of the rest of them? The ones who _aren’t_ girls? Will they, oh, how did you put it, Danny… _put it about like mad_?” He widens his eyes in a show of enthusiasm, grinning and biting his lip.

Jack laughs out loud to see the expression on Danny’s face, and decides the boys deserve just a little more torture. “Listen up!” he cries, and all the men on deck turn to face him. “Ana’s watch are staying aboard, this stop; Cotton, Gibbs, take whoever you need, and this” (he tosses a heavy, jangling purse to Gibbs) “and get to work on that provisions list. All deliveries before end of day tomorrow, we’ll be leaving Friday, with the morning tide. Rest of you, do as you please, try not to enrage the natives, and enjoy yerselves!”

There’s general cheer at this, the men knowing it’ll likely be the last port before the long haul to Madagascar.

“Oh, one more thing!” cries Jack, as though he only just thought of it. “Jimmy, Danny; ‘tis probably unwise for you to leave the ship, after all; who knows whether the Queen would be able to keep her hands off you, eh? She might not wish to let you go again. No, I really can’t see my way clear to letting you disembarque, boys.”

“Ah, Jaysus, Jack, there’s no call for—”

“Oh, I think there is,” says their father, coming up behind Jack Sparrow, his arms folded and a fierce expression upon his face.

“But it’s _Malabar_!” cries Danny in dismay. “Nayars! Mock battles! Girls with no morals!”

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you wound up the powers in these parts. Besides, what d’you want with an immoral girl?” says Jack. “Have a care, Mr Shaftoe, you’ll offend Mr Turner’s sensibilities.”

“Well, they’re fun to _look at_ ,” insists Danny, pouting slightly.

“I’m not an unreasonable man; you can borrow my glass,” says Jack merrily.

Will puts an arm round each of the brothers. “Oh, don’t fret,” he says; “I’ll bring you back something nice, shall I? A… a nice _piece of fruit_ , eh, would you like that?” His shoulders shake with mirth, lips quivering to see the building rage on the twins’ faces, and before he starts to laugh, he blows them each a kiss, and follows Cotton down the sea-ladder.

*

Jimmy and Danny are working off their annoyance with rather aggressive swordplay in the waist, and their father is watching idly, half an eye on his frowning, lunging sons, and the other scanning the harbour automatically. He’s not entirely sure what he’s on the lookout for; not, that is, until he sees it. It’s that bald-headed chap from the dhow, now in a small galleot, two dozen oarslaves and as many armed Nayars behind him; and the _Pearl_ is their apparent destination.

“Jimmy!” he says, without taking his eyes from the approaching vessel. “Go and get Jack, will you? He’s in the hold.”

The boys stop fighting, squinting out in the direction of Jack’s gaze. “Cain’t you go?” says Jimmy.

“And leave you to shoot your mouth off again? What do you think? Go on, go!”

Jimmy grumbles off, and by the time the galleot pulls up alongside, the oarslaves working to keep her steady in a most professional manner—Jack is rather impressed, and nods approvingly at ‘em, though he suspects they won’t appreciate just how well-informed an admirer he is—the skeletal remainder of the _Black Pearl_ ’s crew is standing at the gunwale, looking down.

“Say hello, then,” says Sparrow, and Jack does. The bald man looks briefly at Jimmy and Danny, but they are under very strict instructions, backed up with vivid (and unpleasantly credible) threats of violence, and merely smile back. He bows in Jack Sparrow’s general direction, and lets loose a torrent of Sabir. Jimmy and Danny smirk a little.

“I’m afraid,” says Jack, through gritted teeth, “that her Glorious Majesty requests the pleasure of our company this evening.”

“Oh, well, fair enough,” says Sparrow, keen after all to meet a Monarch, and explore that rather interesting palace. “Tell him that Messrs Shaftoe and Sparrow would be most pleased to accept her invitation.”

“Well, actually,” says Jack, squirming a little, “by ‘our company’, he seems to mean, well, me an’ the boys. Particularly the boys, if I get the gist of it right.”

“I b’lieve you do,” says Danny, rather smugly.

Jack watches Sparrow carefully; his black eyes narrow a little, and he puts a finger to his mouth, as though deep in thought. On the one hand, he’s forbidden the boys to disembarque; on the other, it was only to keep ‘em out of trouble, and trouble seems to be seeking them out regardless. Also, dining with a Queen! It can only make for a great tale, one of these days. And she’s clearly not _too_ annoyed by Jimmy’s lip.

“Tell our visitor,” he says, eventually, “that I’d be pleased to allow my men to pay a visit to her Majesty, but certainly not without _me_. It simply wouldn’t be _right_ , now, would it?”

Jack smiles at Sparrow’s obvious enthusiasm, though he’s little enough of his own, and tells the fellow this (well, more or less this, couched in slightly more formalised terms), and is told that a boat will be sent an hour before sundown. Jack thanks him, the raïs cracks his whip, and the galleot’s off again.

Jack watches it, till he feels Jack Sparrow’s narrow self pressing up behind him, and a low growly murmur in his ear says, “You ain’t too pleased by this, are you, love?”

“This is, may I remind you, the woman who schemed to get me eaten by crocodiles.”

“Aye, she schemed; but did she succeed? Why, no; she was utterly outwitted by your brave and cunning self, was she not?”

“And was none too delighted by that outcome.”

“Ah, that was a couple of years ago now,” says Sparrow, and his warm hands snake round Jack’s waist, fingertips tucking proprietorially into Jack’s breeches. “Surely she’ll’ve forgot all about that.”

Jack gives a chuff of laughter, and turns his head, till his lips lie against Sparrow’s ear; he cannot quite resist a small bite, and Sparrow’s fingers dig against his belly appreciatively.

“Don’t be an idiot, Jack,” he mutters. “She’s a _woman_.”


	3. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Three

  


In the warm golden dusk, the four men—flanked fore and aft by silent, armed Nayars—are led up the stairways which are cut into the verdant cliff-face, now tunnelling deep, now turning and emerging again into the profusion of bright flowers, their view of the harbour and town improved every time. It’s a long way up, and still damnably hot, though an evening breeze is beginning to build, bringing with it a clean, salty tang that drives away the cloyingly sweet floral scents. Jack Sparrow wishes that he could wander about in nothing but a loose pair of trews, like these what-d’you-callits, these Nayars; but he’d insisted to the Shaftoes (who’d greeted the request with varying degrees of lack of enthusiasm) that they should clean themselves up to meet with a Queen, and had set a Good Example himself, digging out a rather lovely ruby frockcoat, re-braiding his beard, and repainting his eyes.

He could not convince Jack Shaftoe into a coat, but was pleased nonetheless to’ve conned him into dark canvas breeches, and not only a shirt, but (rather astonishingly) a long weskit, which was a little too tight and wouldn’t button across the chest, but looked, to Jack’s mind, all the better for that. The boys had appeared in their usual lurid vests, and been sent right back down again to find shirts to go under ‘em; Jack suspected that the rather worn exemplars they’d come back with were actually Will’s, but at least they were covered. No point in encouraging this Kottakkal unnecessarily, after all.

There’d been no sign of any of his company before the galleot returned to collect them at sunset, and that left the ship sadly under-guarded, to Jack’s way of thinking. But what was a fellow to do, when summoned to the presence of a Queen?

Jack Shaftoe, climbing ahead of him—what an admirable sight that was, in those rather well-fitting breeches—had barely stopped talking the whole way up. Sharing tales, and admonitions, and observations, and seemingly anything else that came to mind, till Jack was mightily tempted to tell him to shut up.

“And, _please_ ,” he was saying now, “ _please_ don’t enrage her; I swear, she’s quite monstrous when roused.”

“Oh, don’t we know it, Dad,” puts in Jimmy.

“I said _roused_ , not _a_ -roused, and spare me the details,” says Shaftoe, cuffing his son absentmindedly.

They reach the plateau on which the palace stands, and are led along shaded pathways, between buildings separated by bright gardens; Jack’s eye is caught by one strange area, all stones and angles, with only small spots of green to break up the cool grey of it. He’s about to ask, when Shaftoe pauses for a moment, and says, “Look at that, boys; Gabriel’s garden’s still here.”

Gabriel Goto, one of Shaftoe’s companions. Jack’s heard all about him. That’s the saddest excuse for a garden that he’s ever seen; but he thinks he’ll keep this opinion to himself.

At last they reach a large, domed building, and are led up the steps in front. By the door stands the shiny-headed envoy, his dark skin gleaming in the light of great torches at either side of the entrance. He gives a little bow as they approach, and the Nayars peel off, to stand on either side of the party. Another chap appears behind him; Persian, Jack would guess, from the look of him. The envoy says something, and the Persian says, in heavily accented English, “We greet you, and welcome you to the court of Kottakkal. Her Majesty awaits you. I am Darius; I speak your tongue, and I shall speak for you.”

“You’re her new _linguist_ , eh?” asks Shaftoe with a smirk. “Bet you’ve got a story or two to tell.”

The linguist is tall and thin, with long silky hair falling across his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He doesn’t smile back at Shaftoe, and Jack thinks, _Mental note, has no sense of humour_. Instead he says, “I must ask you to leave your weapons here with the guard.”

“Why?” says Jack, who feels naked without steel and shot, but Shaftoe puts a hand on his arm and says, “It’s alright, Jack, they always do this, it means nothing.” So they hand over their combined armoury of swords, pistols, knives, and that bloody yo-yo thing that Shaftoe likes so much, and are suffered entry.

A long colonnaded passageway leads them to a large, sumptuously decorated salon, where carven teak shutters open onto an impressive vista of the sun dying rather melodramatically over the ocean; in a corner, musicians play some intricate tune in a manner which Jack can only assume to be _deliberately_ nasal and discordant. Perhaps two dozen people are standing about, dressed in not-terribly-much (but what they do sport in the way of clothing is highly decorated and probably took a dozen quick-fingered infants the best years of their childhoods to produce) and they turn when the group enters; turn, and move to the sides of the hall, and Darius and the envoy lead them up to where a seriously scary woman sits, atop a chair whose sheer gaudiness would suggest that the concept of barock, despite European pretensions, actually originated fairly close to here.

The woman herself is far less ornate. Her skin is deepest mahogany, her hair cut close to her scalp; she wears only a long embroidered _sarung_ , and my god, Jack reflects, Jimmy and Danny weren’t exaggerating about those breasts. They’re positively intimidating. About her neck she wears, as Shaftoe had described, flat metal rings, like some hard and shining ruff, and Jack can see just how sharp they are. Oh no, he wouldn’t want one of those flying his way. He’s heard that story. She has a long scar across one cheekbone, but her face is beautiful for all that; it merely accentuates her fierceness.

Darius bows low, and says something to her, and Jack catches their names in his speech. He follows the interpreter’s lead and bows, low and floridly, and he says, “It’s our pleasure to be at your service, Majesty,” glancing up at her from his grovelling viewpoint, and giving her his most winning smile. But this effort doesn’t seem to be appreciated; her nostrils flare, and her eyes widen, and Darius says (with a slightly perturbing tremor in his voice), “Her Majesty did not request you to speak.”

“Oh, well, terribly sorry,” says Jack, with a rather patronising look of apology, and this time they both glare at him together. This isn’t going so well. He decides to shut up for the time being.

The Queen, through Darius, says, “Jackshaftoe, tell me why you are no longer with the _Minerva_? What of my investment? What of my sons?”

“The Enterprise continues apace, your Majesty,” says Shaftoe. “The boys and I have parted ways from them, it’s true, but don’t worry, your dividends’ll be on their way soonish. And your sons are just fine. Delightful chaps. Grown a lot. Don’t know what we would’ve done without them.”

Danny makes a funny noise in his throat and Jack gets the distinct impression that this might be a rather rosier report on the Royal Offspring than the facts of the matter would warrant.

The Queen stands (crikey, she’s as tall as Shaftoe, and possibly broader in the shoulder) and walks over, a lazy sway in her hips; she ignores Sparrow and Shaftoe, and presents a bejewelled hand to each of the boys. Jimmy and Danny drop to their knees and each bring a hand to their lips, favouring the Queen with twin blue gazes from beneath their dark lashes; and she laughs, loud and long, and grabs each by a wrist, hauling them to their feet.

“You are welcome,” she tells them. “I have not forgot you, Jimmyshaftoe, nor you, Dannyshaftoe.”

Jack leans over and mutters in Shaftoe’s ear, “Either she’s taking Jimmy’s crack very well, or it got misinterpreted somewhere along the line, I’d say.”

“She’s not used to being told _no_ ,” Shaftoe whispers back. “She probably just didn’t get it.”

Kottakkal goes off into some long tirade that sends people scurrying; Darius, trying to keep up, says, “Her Majesty will eat now, and your party are invited to dine with her.”

“Ooh, lovely,” says Jack, who’s rather peckish, and there are some good smells wafting around. Servants are placing low tables round the edges of the room, bringing out heaped platters of rice, plates of thin flat breads, and great bowls of spicy smelling stew. The Queen, still with a firm grip on the boys, makes her way to the table at the head of the room, and the two Jacks make to follow; she turns, and says something whose rudeness can be clearly guessed from her appalled tone, and frankly repulsed expression.

“Not you,” says Darius hurriedly. “Jackshaftoe, you are to sit there—” and he indicates a table in the very furthest corner of the room.

“That’s very impolite. And what about me?” says Jack, rather miffed at this lack of appreciation for his two favourite people.

“The Queen does not care where you sit,” says Darius, looking down his long nose. Jack narrows his eyes at him. “Boys! Be nice!” he hisses at Danny and Jimmy’s retreating backs, as he and Shaftoe are hustled away by the linguist.

They sit cross-legged on the floor at their assigned table. “You’d think we were fucking lepers,” grumbles Jack, who really doesn’t much like this woman at all, so far. She has positioned Jimmy and Danny on either side of her, and is demanding that they feed her by hand; this appears to be a relatively dangerous job, as she’s equally partial to biting their fingers as she is to actually ingesting food. Still, they appear to be behaving themselves; possibly a little too much, in fact. Jack’s glad, very glad, that Will’s not here to see this.

“Well, to their way of thinking, we are lepers,” says Jack Shaftoe; “At least, I am.”

“What?” says Jack indignantly, and then, a little worried, “Is there something you haven’t told me?” He glances over Shaftoe’s tanned skin; no white marks there, but Jack doesn’t know a _lot_ about the symptoms of leprosy.

Shaftoe grins. “No, Jack; it’s merely that the Queen was… a little surprised when she came across my Credential. She believes me to be some sort of, I gather, _hermaphrodite_ ; definitely rather unclean, anyway, it’s a miracle she’s letting me eat in the same room, to be honest.”

“And _why_ , pray tell, did she get an eyeful in the first place?” queries Jack, decidedly jealous (of the Queen) and not a little revolted (at the thought of the two of ‘em, together).

“You’re not the only person in the world who’s thought that they’d like a piece of Jack Shaftoe,” says that gentleman, rather archly (a habit which he never used to have, thinks Jack; he seems to be picking it up from someone, though Jack cannot imagine who) as he rips off a piece of unleavened bread, and uses it to scoop up rice and stew, and wrap them into a perfect little morsel, which he pops into Jack’s mouth.

It’s good, spicy and fishy and generally delicious. Jack attempts reciprocity, but fails to fold it right, and next thing, Shaftoe’s got rice all down his weskit, and is laughing at him. “No, no; like this,” he says, and covers Jack’s hand with his own, folding soft bread round; and it reminds Jack, inescapably, of his own hand over Shaftoe’s, writing, and that memory fills him with bright warmth. He brings this more secure offering to Shaftoe’s lips, and Shaftoe opens his mouth for it, catching Jack’s fingers in his teeth for a moment, and Jack brushes a fingertip across his curving lip as he chews, perfectly desperate to kiss the man, but suspecting that it’s really not the done thing in the Royal Presence.

He leans over, and whispers, “I’m bored of this place already; when can we go home, d’you think, so that I can ravish my favourite leprous hermaphrodite?”

Shaftoe chuckles, a sound of which Jack’s particularly fond, and had indeed hoped to evoke. “That’s the worst sweet nothing I’ve ever heard of,” he says. “Here, try this one,” and he offers Jack more food.

Shortly, the linguist approaches. “Her Majesty wishes you to remain in the palace, tonight,” he says blandly.

“Oh, thanks; but we’ll be heading back to our ship,” says Jack quickly, and Shaftoe nods. Darius smiles thinly.

“No, gentlemen,” he says. “Her Majesty wishes you to _remain in the palace_.”

Jack doesn’t like that, not one bit. But when he glances up at the top table, and sees smiling Jimmy feeding wetly rubicund pomegranate seeds, one by one, to the Queen, and sees the slightly desperate, unfocussed stare of Danny (this confuses him for a moment, until he notes that Kottakkal’s left hand has disappeared beneath the table) he decides that there’s little chance of the boys making an escape this evening; and he’d better stay close by, rather than leaving them, unattended, to her mercies.

“My men will be expecting our return,” he tries anyway, half-heartedly; Darius nods, and says that he will send word to the ship.

So that’s, apparently, that.


	4. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Four

  


The moon is high in the sky when the Queen finally decides to retire. She has spent almost the entire evening with Jimmy and Danny, coming over briefly once more to quiz Jack on the progress of the _Minerva_ , and to ferret out his reason for leaving his friends. Jack is, initially, rather vague on this point; but after Kottakkal, who seems to have taken a vivid dislike to Sparrow, is rude to the pirate one time too many, he can’t keep it in anymore.

“Your Majesty,” he proclaims, “our parting of the ways came as a result of my meeting, once again, with Captain Jack Sparrow here.” (He puts an arm about Sparrow’s shoulders, and Sparrow, sensing his intent, plays it up for all he’s worth, putting all his weight onto one jutting hip and sliding his own arm around Jack’s waist.) “He’s… my paramour, yes, that’s a nice word, ain’t it Jack? Wonder what our linguist here will make of that one?” And he gives Darius a wicked glare.

Kottakkal has already deciphered the message, before her translator’s words reach her. She laughs, showing a terrifically pink tongue, the whitest of white teeth. Up close, her dark skin has been painted with tiny black lines, vines and curlicues, dotted patterns; she’s hypnotically exotic, and Jack does remember why he ended up in her bedchamber in the first place. She talks loudly, prodding Jack in the chest.

“Her Majesty is unsurprised,” says Darius smoothly, “given your… formation. She says it is most wondrous that a creature such as yourself has created such sons, and queries whether it is definitely the case that they sprang from your loins.”

“Her Majesty is as charming as ever,” says Jack. “And tell her that my sons—no, don’t tell her. There’s probably some things she should find out for herself.”

The Queen disappears in a dark, sweet-scented roil of daughters and handmaidens, all of them as gleamingly under-dressed as herself. Darius allows them to collect their arms, now that they are no longer in the Royal Presence, and leads them away, to the guest wing.

“Ah, Malabar,” says Danny, happily, as they pass down a vine-covered passage, the city spread out below them in the moonlight. “It’s something, ain’t it?”

“You would say that,” says Sparrow, “since you’ve just been sat at the Queen’s table, with her hand down your trousers.”

“Hah! Could you see that?” cries Danny. “She’s a goer, I tell you!”

“You might want to lock your door tonight,” says Jack.

“Or not,” says Jimmy.

“And what of young William?” Jack demands, amazed that he’s defending the whelp for whom, a few short weeks ago, he felt such loathing.

“Him!” says Jimmy, with bitter sarcasm. “Did you not see him head off into town earlier today? Did you not hear him asking about the Malabari fellows?”

“Ah, he was teasing you, and no more than you deserved, neither.”

“Well, I don’t see him here. He didn’t rush back to the _Pearl_ , did he?” says Danny, scowling.

“Perhaps,” Sparrow suggests in an undertone, “We might have this discussion when our guide here isn’t quite so _around_ as he is at the minute?”

Jack supposes he does have a point. It can only muddy the waters with the Queen. And tomorrow they’ll be gone, and that’ll be the end of it. Oh, he can’t wait to be out of here.

Jimmy and Danny are shown to a large room, with two great teak beds, draped in fine nets to keep out the night’s more predatory insects; Darius leads Shaftoe and Sparrow further on, across a small tiled courtyard, to a room on the corner of the palace. It has a balcony, hanging out over the cliff-face, and is full of the scent of jasmine, and other flowers that Jack doesn’t know. It has but one large bed, flat and hard in the style of these parts, tented with fabric.

Jack glances at Darius, askance. “Who’s this room for, then?” he asks, just in case; the interpreter’s face is professionally neutral, and he says, “My apologies, I thought it would suffice; if that is not the case, please, follow me—”

“No, no,” says Sparrow, hurriedly. “It’ll suffice, it’ll suffice. Goodnight, then, goodbye, thanks for all the… speaking.”

Darius bows out, leaving a lantern on a side table as he leaves. The door closes; and Jack Sparrow saunters over and slides the bolt shut.

He turns with a grin on his face that Jack knows very well, and a heat starts to build in his belly. Christ, he loves the look of Jack Sparrow in flickery gold lanternlight, all shadows and motion; and he stands still as Sparrow sways up to him, fastening his hands behind Jack’s head.

“Now, it seems to me,” says Jack Sparrow, eyes brightly dark, “that you’ve been sorely tried this evening. That woman clearly doesn’t appreciate you, not one jot; and your sons are, quite frankly, absolute harlots, as far as I can tell—no, I don’t mean that in any sort of _pejorative_ manner, I assure you!—and all in all, it seems that I, love, I am the _only_ one who truly understands the sheer Fabulousness of You. And so,” (his mouth is right by Jack’s ear now, his moustache tickling delightfully, the breath of his words warm on Jack’s skin, sending a shiver all down Jack’s spine) “I think it only fair that I should show you, tonight, just how… fucking… wonderful… you… are.”

These words are punctuated by a darting tongue, and by clever fingers which are popping the buttons of Jack’s weskit; and Jack can say nothing sensible in return, save _Mmmm_ , as he takes Jack Sparrow’s gilded face between his hands and kisses him, as he’s been wanting to do all evening. He can taste fish and spice in Sparrow’s mouth, and it’s odd not to taste rum; the faint metallic tang that’s always there, from the gold, now sits sharply alongside coriander and lemongrass. Sparrow pushes the vest from Jack’s shoulders, plucks the shirt from his breeches, wasting no time; he clearly wants Jack’s skin, and God knows Jack wants the same from him in return, and they’re tugging at one another’s clothing, laughing into the kiss that neither one of them wants to break.

They have to, in the end, to rid themselves of boots and breeches, to pull shirts over their heads, in a great flurry of discarded clothing, and then Jack’s bare in the warm night air, and being pushed backwards onto the bed, through the gap in the fine silk netting, and he’s lying on his back, Jack Sparrow kneeling astride him, the world reduced suddenly to this gauzy silken tent and the two of them inside it, and Jack says, foolish and thick-tongued with desire, “We’re in a tent,” and Sparrow grins wolfishly and says, “Oh, I’m intent alright,” and Jack rolls his eyes at the awfulness of that joke; or at least, that’s why he’s rolling them at first, but then Jack Sparrow’s volcanic mouth is on his belly, Jack Sparrow’s long fingers are flickering over his chest, and Jack’s rolling his eyes in delight, (im)pure and simple; oh, God, he wants Sparrow all over him, close and hard and closer still, and he tries to pull him down, but no. That strong, lithe body resists, tongue sliding wet and warm over Jack’s hipbones.

“Shh,” says teasing Jack Sparrow; “stop that; take it like—take it like a hermaphrodite.”

“Fuck off,” growls Jack, oddly unoffended. Sparrow can say the most appalling things to him, and it’s water off a duck’s back; not that Jack’s ever been notably thin-skinned, but with Sparrow… well, Jack knows what lies beneath.

What lies beneath is making Jack Sparrow hum as his tongue slides down the inside of Jack’s thigh; is making his hands tremble as he strokes Jack with fingertips like drifting sparks; is making his cock fall heavy between Jack’s calves as he bends, leans, licks, hums, sucks. His hair, in all its pitchy tangles, obscures him from Jack’s view, and Jack gasps, and pushes himself onto his elbows, wanting so much to see it all; he leans down and gathers a great handful of it out of the way, and groans as he sees what he knew he would see, being Jack Sparrow’s greedy mouth wrapped around him, and the sight of it as much as the burning swirl of tongue sends tremors of pleasure through him, and he arches up into it, thighs painfully tense, and then falls backward as Sparrow’s hand joins his mouth in pleasuring him.

Jack feels dizzy with the joy of it, and throws his head back on the sweet white sheets. “Ah, Jack,” he mutters, “’Tis you, you that’s wonderful, I swear I—oh, do that again, go on, just like—ah, fuck, fuck, yes—” And before he’s realised what’s happening, there’s a long oily finger somewhere in the heart of him, touching him some place close to his soul, and he’s shuddering and smiling and he would be coming, but that mouth is gone now, and at last Jack Sparrow gives him the glorious gift of his smooth-skinned self, on top of Jack, grinding into Jack, kissing Jack in a hungry, messy, desperate way that makes Jack feel just exactly that way himself; and he pulls his knees up, right up, and says into that lovely wet messy kiss, “Come on, Jack, fuck me, come on—”

“Wait,” says, gasps, Sparrow, “wait, I can wait, I—”

“No,” says Jack, “it’s enough, now, oh God now,” and he reaches down, clutching at that trembling hardness, pushing it against himself; and it’s barely enough, really, that warm saliva, that trace of oil, and his eyes go wide as Jack Sparrow gives in to his demand and thrusts into him, stretching, distending him; like the first time, all over again, and he bares his teeth, feral, and Sparrow freezes, _I’ll not hurt you, no_ , but Jack wants it, oh he wants it, wants the oneness and the match, the burn and the impossible pressure, and he pulls Sparrow to him, tilts his hips to take it, and Sparrow makes a growling sob of a sound as he slides in, and in, and in, till Jack gets the touch he wants and cries out, victorious.

And Jack knows he will be sore on the morrow, he knows he could avoid it by slowing, waiting for Sparrow’s sure and slicking touch, but it’s like some test; is it worth discomfort, for what he’ll get in return? Oh, fuck, yes, it is, and he sinks his fingers into warm brown flesh, pulling, demanding, and Jack Sparrow’s sinuous hips curve and push into him, again, again, again, and his lips are back on Jack’s, his tongue as tender as his yard is not, and he wraps long fingers around Jack’s Credential, and he’s everywhere, all around Jack, all inside him, gold and glimmer, sweat and salt, hair and skin and blood and rush, and Jack wails and shudders and squirms and comes, blindingly, shiveringly, and feels Sparrow spend the same, the twitch inside him and the blank, agonised delight on Jack Sparrow’s gilded face setting off quivery aftershocks of pleasure.

Sparrow falls down upon him, panting, and Jack lets his legs collapse, shakily, onto the bed. Sparrow licks at the sweat on Jack’s neck, and Jack can feel his smile.

*

Some time later, they stand bare-skinned on the balcony, letting the night air dry the sweat from them. Jack stands close behind his love, arms around the other’s waist, and stares out over Sparrow’s smooth shoulder; stares at the moon’s creamy reflections, scattered upon the black waters of the Laccadive Sea, his mind most pleasantly empty. Jack Sparrow leans his elbows on the worn wooden railing, peering down at the overgrown paths and alleyways of the palace below him, gently pressing himself back against Jack’s groin, with no real intent, only an absentminded caress.

There is a rustle below them, and Sparrow lets out a low laugh.

“Well, look who it ain’t,” he whispers.


	5. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Five

  


 

It’s everything that Jimmy and Danny made it out to be, Malabar, all that and more; and though Will has been half way round the wide curving world now, and is no green boy, still he wanders wide-eyed and smiling after Mr Gibbs as they pass through the alleyways and marketplaces, now dark and fragrantly quiet, now eye-scouringly bright and filled with the cries of people, and birds, and thin snarling dogs; the girls, barely dressed, smile and laugh at them, merchants call from dim doorways and shaded, cloth-hung stalls, and small boys, naked and ebonied, run after them, waving leafy swords in mock threat.

Will follows Gibbs for a while, and helps with the purchase negotiations, which always seem to go smoother when he stands behind the First Mate, holding himself as tall and broad as ever he can, with narrowed eyes and a hand hovering about his sword-hilt; but, as soon as he thinks it reasonable, he says his farewells and sets off for some lone exploring. Which turns out to be all very interesting, exotic, amusing, et cetera; but after the very littlest while he finds himself thinking that, really, it would all be far _more_ entertaining if he had the company of the Shaftoe boys…

And yet, Jack was quite determined that they should remain on board. And he can’t, no he really can’t, let those two know that his world seems a duller place—even _Malabar_ seems a duller place—without their bright gazes and mocking laughter and their strong, warm arms thrown casually about his shoulders. It’s not a piece of information that they should be trusted with, no, not at all. He has to at least stay here, without them, for the day. But that should be long enough to assert his independence, shouldn’t it? A day? But no more. No more.

Which is why, not long after sundown, he finds himself returning to the ship, along with Gibbs and Cotton and numerous hogsheads and firkins and sacks of provisions, even though the rest of the crew are nowhere near ready to return; and, subsequently and quite naturally, it’s why he is so very annoyed when Ana tells him that all three Shaftoes, not to mention Jack, are up at the palace.

Will tries to look uninterested at this news, but Ana is far too perspicacious not to see the truth of it in the line of his mouth; and she says, “They’ll be back soon, you can be sure of it.” Even though she has no idea when they’ll be back. And Will tries to keep that in mind; and manages to do so for, oh, several hours at least, though believing it for the last two becomes rather problematic, and his incessant pacing is becoming quite irritating to his shipmates. So irritating that, when the bright moon is high in the sky and he finally says, “I think I might just go and meet them, on their way back,” nobody even tries to dissuade him.

And when, less than half an hour after his departure, a message comes from the palace to say that the men will not return that night, Ana cannot keep a small, pleased smile from her face; she would not want Will to’ve been here, and heard that, not while he was pacing lonely on the quarterdeck.

But Will doesn’t know it, yet; and as he strides through the town, he notes frowningly that, if they _are_ on their way back, they have not come very far; they are not at the wharf, and neither does he encounter them on the long climb up the cliff to Kottakkal’s palace. He’s fairly annoyed, by this time; it’s long past midnight, where can they _be_?

He can be very silent, can William Turner, and Jack Sparrow has taught him much of the fine art of wilful invisibility; and he passes the somnolent guards outside the palace without incident or discovery. But this palace is like no other he’s ever come across; it is not one building, but many, scattered throughout an interconnected maze of paths, pergolas, colonnades, stairs, balconies, gardens, trees, aviaries, all covered in vines and night-closed flowers and the low buzz of nocturnal insects. And Will is, frankly, quite utterly lost when he suddenly hears, above him, a human sound; a chuckle, and a “Pssst! William!”

He cranes upward, and there, hanging over the edge of a balcony, is the laughing face of Jack Sparrow; in the moonlight, barechested, he grins down, and the sight of him still makes Will’s heart leap, just a little. Even though, there behind him (very _close_ behind him) Jack Shaftoe stands, one hand curving possessively round his captain’s hard narrow waist. Will grits his teeth, and tells himself to get over it, and think about Jimmy and Danny instead, and it does help, oh yes, it helps a lot.

“Where d’you think you’re going, lad?” stage-whispers Jack Sparrow, amusement dancing all over his mobile face, as he clearly knows the answer, and Will doesn’t bother to dispute it.

“Where are they?” he whispers. “I can’t find anything in this damned heathen place!”

“They’re in _bed_ ,” says Sparrow, with a cocked eyebrow, but Will doesn’t rise to it. “Are you all staying here?” he says, instead. “Where are their rooms?”

Sparrow grins, and mutters to Shaftoe, “What d’you reckon, mate, shall we tell him? Or shall we watch him hunting, it might be fun, you know. Anyway, d’you think your boys will want a visitor, this late an’ all?”

Shaftoe cuffs Jack Sparrow gently on the head with his spare hand. “Just tell him,” he growls, and Will likes him for it. Likes him for lots of things, actually, despite himself; then, occasionally, Shaftoe’ll pull something like that crocodile stunt, and Will’s original opinion of the man reasserts itself.

Jack pouts, and mutters, “You’re no fun,” and gestures back the way Will’s just come; “There’s a doorway in the wall, there, see? Come up the stairs behind that, and the boys are in the second room to port. Probably. But, William?”

“What?” Will’s already turned, is itching to go.

“For Christ’s sake be careful, and be gone before it’s light; Her Majesty’s notably fond of those two, she wouldn’t be pleased to find you here. I mean that. In, you know, in a captainly sort of a way. Be _gone_ , d’you hear?”

“Aye, sir,” says Will with a grin, and disappears behind the dark wooden door.

 

 

The second door ‘to port’ is arched, with an ornate brass plate at eye-level; Will tries to open first the plate, and secondly the door, but both are locked against him. There’s no choice for it; he knocks, gently, a little tentatively, suddenly unsure of his welcome, after the way he’d teased the boys earlier today. No reply, no sound; he knocks again, and then takes a little step backwards as he hears one of them, inside, swear viciously under his breath, and the other says, irritably, “Fook off, will you? No, we said!”

Will’s pretty sure that doesn’t apply to him, but still, they certainly don’t sound terribly welcoming. “Um,” he says, to the edge of the door, knocking again, “It’s, well it’s me; d’you want _me_ to, how did you put it, it was really charming… oh, yes, ‘fook off’?”

He’s barely finished speaking before the door’s flung open, so fast that the wind of its passage seems to pull him into the room, into Danny’s arms, and he’s enveloped in their low delighted chuckles, in their warm breath and warmer hands, and the door closes behind him. Will pushes back the bubble of laughter that rises in his throat, and demands, “So who, exactly, _did_ you want to fook off?”

Danny raises his face from Will’s neck, and peers over Will’s shoulder to his brother; “See?” he says, “There’s that jealous streak again, I tell you!”

“It was Her, wasn’t it?” persists Will, though it isn’t easy to maintain an annoyed front as Danny’s tongue circles his ear, and hot, roaring breath tickles deliciously.

Jimmy huffs. “Didn’t even have the balls to come herself, did she, Dan? Sent that bloody Ay-rab to demand our presence!”

Will smiles, and pulls Jimmy closer, winding an arm around his bare neck; both the Shaftoe boys are clad in nothing but their threadbare drawers, as if they’ve been sleeping, but an oil lamp still burns on the low table between the beds. “So, what did you tell this poor gentleman?”

“You already _know_ what we told him,” says Jimmy, shoving Danny over so that he can press up against Will, and Will staggers a little under their combined onslaught.

“And… _why_ did you tell him such a thing?” Will asks, a little throatily, as the twins’ hands, as if in concert, begin to pluck at his clothing. But he gets nothing but laughter in return, and knows they’ll not rise to it. That’s one thing, with these two; they’ll do most anything in one another’s presence, will kiss him and suck him and fuck him, and say the most wickedly, deliciously lascivious things about him, about his face and his arse and his mouth and his cock; but they won’t say anything… about how they might _feel_. As if that’s the one thing they hold private; the one thing they won’t share.

But it’s hard to care, really hard, when Jimmy’s pulled his shirt over his head, and Danny’s knelt and held his boots so that he can pull his feet from them, and then made very, very short work of his breeches, and Will (who’s been half-hard since talking with Jack, since finding out where they were, and besides which, feels that he’s owed something, having been alone and miserable all evening while these two have apparently been feted and adored by an exotic regent) fights a tremble at the soft cool touch of jasmine-scented night air on his skin, and instead puts a hand to Jimmy’s chest and pushes him away, does the same with one foot to Danny, who tumbles backward, and he takes a few steps into the centre of the room, loving the shivery knowledge of their blue, blue eyes upon him, and of their willingness to do whatever he might ask of them.

They stare at him, hungrily, identical smiles playing about their flushing lips. Oh, Lord, the way they look at him; no-one, no-one in Will’s life has looked at him this way. Sometimes, from the corner of his eye, he thought that Elizabeth, maybe… but it rather disturbed him, coming from his perfect angel; and Jack, well, he’d grin, and tell Will he was a lovely thing, but there was never that look of barely controlled want, that ravenous light, that uncaring show of desire. It fires him, delights him, builds up a great ballooning hunger of his own, feeds a delicious and certain knowledge of his own power, his own beauty, and it’s completely, completely addictive. He _loathes_ the thought that they might have looked at this Queen the same way. Given her the same power. The power that surges now through his veins, through his cock, and he runs a hand down his abdomen, strokes himself almost absently; with the other hand, he beckons them forward.

“Me, first,” he says, as they saunter over, their enthusiasm all too visible ‘neath thin cotton. Ah, god, their long limbs, the flex of thigh muscle as they walk, the flush that appears between their collarbones; too, too beautiful, and he’s sure he must look at them the selfsame way they look at him, because he surely feels it. Jimmy comes up close, behind him, pushes Will’s hair from his neck, and fastens his mouth on the warm, damp skin there; Will grunts as he feels a gentle scrape of teeth, a less gentle scrape of stubble that sends a shiver down him. Before him, Danny stands; and runs his tongue over Will’s (hastily closed) eyelid, before muttering, “You first, aye; we’ve been thinking of nothing _but_ you…”

“Nothing but…” comes an echo, muffled against Will’s neck.

“So why don’t you just stand right there,” continues Danny, “and let us show you what thoughts crossed our minds?” And, with that strange and delicious unspoken synchronicity that they have, they both bend, and kneel, one before him, and one behind, and Will can only gasp and hum in shivery delight, needs all his concentration just to stay standing, as they show him, and show him, and show him.


	6. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Six

  


Will Turner lies in the tangle of delicate, silvery silk that used to be a mosquito net, till the combined writhing, rolling, contorting and general wrestling of himself, Jimmy Shaftoe, and Danny Shaftoe brought it, wafting gently, down around their ears; now the three of them are all but cocooned in it, like lanky golden silkworms, twisted around one another.

The lantern sputtered out an hour or more ago, and the dark is utter; he can hear the deep sleeping breaths of one brother, and then feels the movement of the other, and he honestly doesn’t know who it is that raises himself on one elbow, and leans down, and gently, softly, kisses him, with a mouth still swollen from all the biting kisses of Before. Sleepily, he lets his lips open; lets a careful tongue, no longer pushing and demanding, swoop across his own. Across his teeth. He’s too tired, too spent to react much to it, and it’s not meant that way. Honey-sweet, full of sleep, it tells him a tale of adoration.

“I’m glad you came,” says a low, low whisper, and he knows from the voice, and from the absence of short, cropped hair falling on his face, that it’s Danny.

“Did she really send for you?” Will whispers, trying very hard not to sound jealous, but merely curious.

“Aye, and the rest. At dinner, William, this, I swear to God…” And Danny’s hand snakes its way into the silky labyrinth and wraps itself, sure and hot, around Will’s relaxed cock, which twitches in a reflexively, but desultory way, as if to say _you’d have to put some serious effort into it at this stage, mate, but don’t take that as a no…_ But it’s not Danny’s intention to do anything but demonstrate, and Will’s too appalled by the revelation to react to it on his own behalf.

“Seriously?” he hisses, incredulous. “At dinner? In front of everyone?”

Danny shakes with silent laughter, and nods against his shoulder.

“And, and did you… ?”

“No, ‘course not.”

“So when she sent for you, she wanted…?”

“Oh, an’ no mistake.”

“And you told her, I mean told her man, to…?”

“Well, Jimmy told him we was _indisposed_ ; but _I_ told him to fook off,” says Danny, reassuringly. “Before, Will, ‘twas one thing, but now… Well, it’s diff’rent, ain’t it?” And he leans down and kisses Will again, as if to stop him talking, stop him discussing these awkward things. Will’s heart is light and swollen and glowing at these words, at their sweet implication, and he pushes his fingers into Danny’s thick hair, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper. Wanting to cement the moment, the admission, in his mind.

Wanting at the same time to brick up another moment, wall it off, and bury it alive; the moment when he was standing in the flickery gold centre of this room, legs spread to brace himself, spread to accept Jimmy’s seeking, finding, generous fingers as Will clutched Danny’s hair, and bit back a wail, and let that gorgeous swirling panting feeling build up, and up, and up, and out; the moment when his eyes flew open, and in some slow dreamlike blur he saw the engraved bronze plate on the door swing out, and round, and saw a black almond eye staring unblinkingly at him as he twitched, and gasped, and spent in Danny’s mouth.

He releases Danny, and climbs gently from his embrace. “I have to go,” he mutters. “I have to go.”

*

Captain Jack Sparrow is not a natural early riser, oh no; he’s a nocturnal creature, by inclination, but years and years at sea have rather enforced an ability to deal with any hour of the day, at the very shortest of notice, and to wake rapidly and utterly.

It’s not his preference, though, and particularly not when his bed’s warm and rumpled by the presence of Jack Shaftoe. It’s always amusing, waking up with Shaftoe, for though they may go to sleep curled sweatily together, they are both violent and fidgeting sleepers, and each has had to adjust to all manner of sudden twitchings, turnings, elbowings and kicks from his bedfellow. It’s been nice, for once, to be in a bed large enough to accommodate all these unintentional nightly acrobatics (not to mention the intentional ones).

But now, Jack’s woken not by Shaftoe, but by a peremptory knock upon the door, and the uninvited entry of the linguist, who Jack greets with a barely opened eye and a raised eyebrow. He’s quite aware that they’re a bit of a picture, sprawled naked there together, Shaftoe on his belly, his head nearly off the edge of the bed, Jack himself with no such modesty-protecting pose; but he’s damned if he’s going to move to protect the sensitivities of someone rude enough to barge in without permission. He props himself on his elbows as Shaftoe jerks awake, and swears reflexively, and pulls a sheet about himself.

Darius stands in the doorway, blank-faced, and advises them that the Queen requires their presence, immediately.

“The sun’s barely up,” grumbles Shaftoe. “Can’t she give us five minutes?”

“No.”

“Can’t you bring us some food first?”

“No. Please ready yourselves immediately, and come with me.”

“Well, will you at least let us dress in something approaching privacy?” cries Shaftoe irritably, and Darius turns his back, but does not leave the room.

Jack sighs, as he and Shaftoe comply; bloody women. He’d really been hoping for a nice lie-in, with no damned crew to interrupt him, and Shaftoe all sleepy and affectionate and smelling of bread and dreams and Jack himself; but no! Apparently, it’s up and at ‘em.

Suddenly, he’s struck with a horrid thought. Did William pay attention to his exhortation—his clear _order_ —last night? Was he gone, before the dawn? He glances at Shaftoe, who’s stuffing the tails of his shirt into those too-tight breeches (oh, Jack’s fingers splay out, unbidden, with the strength of his urge to lend a hand) and Shaftoe’s already looking at him, with the same thought; but no words are said.

*

They’re taken through the still cool early morning air, fresh with dew and a thousand opening flowers, to a smaller hall than yesterday’s. The Queen sits on a high dais at its end, and is surrounded, as before, by her people; but notably different people, this time. Jack feels Shaftoe tense at his side as he sees it; these are no courtiers, there are no ladies-in-waiting here. Only a Warrior Queen and her soldiers; her heavily armed, stony-faced soldiers. And Jimmy and Danny Shaftoe, at one side, managing to look simultaneously guilty and innocent, shamefaced and belligerent.

What the hell have they done? But there’s no Will Turner standing with ‘em, and that must, surely, be a good thing?

The interpreter leads them forward, their footfalls echoey on the tiles, and Jack paints an expression of polite, disinterested curiosity on his face. Admit nothing. Because, dammit, for once he’s actually _done_ nothing, even though Kottakkal’s managing to make him feel as though he has. He and Shaftoe bow, and after an arrowing glance from Jack, the boys do the same.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then the Queen stands, and she begins to speak; no laughter in her voice today, no flirtatious glances. She finishes, and gestures angrily to Darius.

He licks his lips, and does not look at Jack as he says, “Her Gracious Majesty informs you that your vessel is hereby accepted as part of the Malabari fleet. You and your men are to leave these shores. If you are found in our lands after five days have passed, you will be taken as oar-slaves. You may go now.”

In an endless moment which extends itself past all normal constraints of the space-time continuum, every drop of blood drains from Jack’s face, and pools itself in a great thumping whirl around his heart. He cannot look at anyone. Jesus, Jesus, what does this madwoman think she’s doing?

“Please advise Her Majesty,” he says, through suddenly dry lips, “that if I, or my men, have offended her in any manner, I should be pleased, very pleased, to right the wrong; and there is truly no need for her to, to, to _bother_ herself with such drastic measures.”

Darius begins to speak, just behind Jack; and then Jack feels a passage of wind, and Darius tails off in a squeak, and when Jack turns, he’s greeted by the sight of the interpreter, his arm pinned viciously backwards, his ornate _kris_ held at his own throat by Jack Shaftoe’s hard brown hand. There’s a snicking susurrus of steel, of gut, of feathers, and Shaftoe’s targeted by every bow and blade in the room.

“Your Majesty,” Shaftoe starts, but she laughs and talks over the top of his words, and Darius explains, tightly, “The Queen advises that you are welcome to kill me, as I am a worthless worm.”

Shaftoe considers this for a moment, then sighs, and releases his hold. “You’re obviously not as good a linguist as my friend Dappa, then,” he says.

“Why?” Jack cries, unable to hold it back, staring from the Queen to Shaftoe to those damned boys, who, to give them some credit, look as dumbfounded as he feels. “Why is she doing this?”

The Queen looks at him levelly, and says a single word.

“Pirate,” explains Darius, helpfully.

With a flick of her wrist, she dismisses them, and the four men, temporarily silenced, temporarily at a loss, are ushered out; their weapons returned to them, as if it is of no consequence whether they’re armed or not (Jack finds this a little disturbing, he was expecting confiscation at the very least; it indicates an absurd level of belief in their own security) and they are silently escorted from the palace by the interpreter and a dozen or more Nayars; are left at the foot of the cliff. Their escort turns to go.

“Wait,” says Jack, to Darius, grabbing at his wrist; the man jumps, and fear flickers across his face, but Jack ignores it. Whatever the man may think him capable of, Jack knows there’s nothing to be gained by hurting him. “What the hell are we supposed to do? Does she really think I’m just going to walk out of here, without my ship?”

“She doesn’t _think_ it, Captain; she _knows_ it. Because your ship is not your ship any longer. It has been her ship for several hours already.”

The sun is climbing into a bold blue sky, but Jack feels cold; very cold. He needs a drink, a moment, a plan; he needs to see the _Pearl_ , he needs to find his company; he needs to find out what happened; he needs to hold tight to Jack Shaftoe, the only other thing in this world that he could not bear to lose. Some of those needs are fulfillable, some less so. He lets go of the Persian’s arm as if it is a poisonous adder, and turns on his heel, and strides grim-faced into the town, Shaftoes at his side, bile rising in his throat.


	7. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Seven

  


Jack Sparrow has been wordless as they wind their way down through the narrow dusty streets to the wharf, but to anyone who knows him as well as Jack Shaftoe knows him (not that anybody does) his spine, the set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled clench of his hands, the pale flare of his nostrils, and the rarely seen downturn of the corners of his mouth all tell a vivid tale. Sooner or later (probably sooner, is Jack’s guess) he’s going to explode, and it’s not going to be pretty. Better to pre-empt it, to set it off early; and Jack has a pretty good idea of what Sparrow’s first question might be, so he asks it for him.

“Boys,” he says, conversationally, “How about you give us a bit of a summary of your evening, after we left you last night, eh?”

Jimmy and Danny exchange a lightning quick glance.

“Ah, it was fairly uneventful, really,” says Jimmy.

Sparrow’s eye twitches. “What,” he says, with terrifying calm, “no _visitors_ or anything, lads?”

“Visitors?” begins Danny, in a gambit that Jack could’ve told him was doomed to rather ugly failure; seconds later, his son is pinned to the alleyway wall, and though he’s actually got a couple of inches on Jack Sparrow, somehow Sparrow’s looming over him; and there’s a knife in the pirate’s hand, a knife which is very close to the navel of Jack’s offspring. As Danny’s father, Jack should probably object to that, but frankly he thinks the boy deserves a bit of a threatening.

“Mr Shaftoe,” hisses Sparrow, “you and your brother really ain’t endearing yourselves to me, this week, not one bit. Now tell me _everything_ , and tell it to me _now_ , or I’ll engrave my displeasure on your belly, so help me.”

“All right, all right,” scowls Danny. “Wotsisname, the Ay-rab, he came to our room, and he said that she, that she… oh, what did he say, Jimmy?”

“That she requested the pleasure of our company.”

“And?” prompts Jack Sparrow, with a gentle push on his knife that has Danny squirming and baring his teeth, beads of sweat appearing on his upper lip.

“And we… declined her offer,” he says.

“Nicely, I hope?”

“’Course!”

“And then?”

“Nothing, that’s all—ow, fook, Jack, don’t—!”

“Nothing? That’s odd, since we gave William Turner quite clear directions to your room,” says Jack Shaftoe helpfully, standing in the sunshine with his arms crossed, doing absolutely nothing to stop his Captain. Jimmy, likewise, seems disinclined to interfere, which is most annoying as far as Danny’s concerned, for was any of this any more his fault than his brother’s? Eh?

“Aye, aye, so Will came, and stayed a couple of hours, and then he left, I swear—he was mad twitchy ‘bout bein’ found there, fook knows why, but he was gone, and then we slept, and then we got dragged up in front of Her, same as you, and that’s all! We never left that bloody room!”

“So he left, and you heard nothing?” demands Sparrow, checking.

“Nothing!” And Danny’s had enough; he pushes Sparrow away, and the pirate throws up his hands, finished. Still bemused, and violently angry; but he believes Danny. He sheaths his knife.

“Come on,” he says, gruffly; “we need to find the others.”

*

Down by the wharf, a growing knot of the _Pearl_ ’s (currently ex)-company can be seen; Jack Sparrow can hear their raised voices, their angry shouts, from several hundred yards distant. He can hear Ana. That’s not good. She wouldn’t leave the ship, he’s sure, unless there was absolutely no choice in the matter.

She’s the first to see him; runs along the dusty promenade, her face distorted with rage and distress, her voice shrill with the same.

“They took the _Pearl_ , Jack, they took her! Hundreds of ‘em, came up in the dark, so silent; and they shot Black, only in the shoulder, mind; and they would’ve killed us all, I swear it! I didn’t give her up unchallenged, Jack, but there were _hundreds_ ; and they swore they’d burn her if we wouldn’t go, and that seemed a worse thing; and oh, Jack, I’m so sorry, I’ll get her back, I swear I will, I swear—”

“Hush,” says Jack, shortly, and he tries to smile at her, but achieves nothing but a horrid twist of his lips and a humiliating urge to cry with rage. “They’re fuckin’ mad, Ana. We’ll sort it. We’ll sort it. ‘S’not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” she says; “I shouldn’t still be standing here, Jack. I should’ve fought them till I could fight them no more.”

“And what would the point of that be, eh? They’d still have the ship, I’d say. Listen, how many of us are here?”

Ana takes a deep breath. Jack’s taking this amazingly well. “About half, mebbe; the rest are still in there somewhere,” and she waves a dismissive hand towards the rickety buildings, the taverns and stews of Malabar.

“Well, I’d say we all need a drink, first; so I’m picking, oh, that place _there_ ” (pointing out the first apparently open hostelry he sees) “as our temporary headquarters; Pete, I want you to take half a dozen and split up, find the rest, and bring ‘em here, we all need to talk. Ana, did we get anything off the ship? Funds? Arms?”

She shakes her head, mute and ashamed.

“Alright, then, so we’ll take stock, and see what we have, and I’ll tell you what I know, which ain’t a lot, and then we’ll, we’ll… we’ll decide what to do.”

Jack has no idea, none at all, what that action might be; but they are looking at him as if he will solve this problem for them, and it will only make it worse if they should see the panic in his heart. It’s all racing back, the memory of losing her before, his ship, his darling, his freedom; the memory of his peripatetic, vagabond life without her. He’s felt so invincible, these past weeks, with his _Pearl_ , and Jack Shaftoe at his side; felt like the king of the world, and acted like it, like a fool, and now look. Shaftoe’d told him that she was a treacherous piece of work, and had he listened?

He feels a large, hot hand on his shoulder, and puts up his own, to touch it. He does not need to look around, to see Shaftoe’s face. The message is all there, in that firm hand, and Jack’s thankful for it.

*

An hour later, he knows the whereabouts of fifty-two of his sixty-eight crewmembers; he knows exactly how much money they’ve got (a depressingly small amount, but he suspects several of the company have been a little conservative in their assessments of their personal wealth, and besides, they haven’t counted bodily adornments yet, and that’ll swell the coffers); he’s done a count of their weaponry, and that at least is looking a little better. Also, he’s drunk most of a bottle of imported rum, and that’s improved life somewhat. At least he feels less likely to be ambushed by rogue and humiliating lachrymosity.

Two things he still doesn’t know: why it happened in the first place, and how he’s going to un-happen it. Actually, make that three things, he thinks, as he notes the Shaftoe boys filing back in through the low door of the tavern, their scowling faces making the failure of their errand plain; he still doesn’t know where Will Turner’s got to. Him and fifteen others.

Jack Shaftoe sits beside him on the settle, and raises a hand to the boys, who make their way through the crush of variously angry and maudlin men. Jack moves his thigh, just a little; takes comfort from the hard, warm proximity of Shaftoe’s leg. God, he wants to be alone with him; but they’ve not enough money for that, for a room. Not if they want to continue drinking; and Jack most certainly isn’t able to forgo the comfort of this bottle of rum, just yet. Besides which, he can hardly run off from his company and lose himself in the glorious oblivion of fucking Jack Shaftoe. Not right now. ‘Twouldn’t be a good look, at all.

Damnable tempting, tho’.

“No sign?” he asks, as Jimmy parks himself on a stool at the end of the table. Danny’s gone straight to the barkeep.

Jimmy shakes his head. The mere fact that he doesn’t talk speaks volumes; he’s a Shaftoe, after all. Poor lad. Jack could almost feel sorry for him.

“So she said nothing to you, before we got there, this morning? Nothing at all?” he persists, going over a line of questioning that’s becoming a well-worn path already.

“Nothing, I swear,” says Jimmy, sweeping the hair back off his face with a scowling gesture of frustration. “The bitch didn’t say a word. Just… just _looked_ , just _stared_ , like she always bloody does.”

They’ve gone over this a dozen times. Gone over every word of last night, rehashed it and reinterpreted it and reconsidered it, but surely, surely, this can’t have happened just because Jimmy and Danny Shaftoe turned down her invitation? Jack knows about _a woman scorned_ , and all that (hell, he’s experienced a number of those instances firsthand, and they can indeed be rather painful) but really, this is ridiculous.

Gibbs reappears; he’d been sent to see what was happening to the ship. “How is she?” says Jack, neutrally; but Gibbs just shakes his head, and rubs his palms up and down his muttonchops, clearly not wanting to impart whatever information it is that he’s gathered.

“She’s… I can’t see her, Jack.”

“She’s left port?” says Jack, in a horrid squeak. Oh god, oh god.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack’s gut is churning, turning somersaults all over again. Once she’s left their sight, that’s it; she could be any-bloody-where, anywhere in the East Indies. And he’s got this great company to look after, which only makes it worse! At least, last time, it was just him; it was his own private betrayal and misery, and he could curl up and wallow in it when he needed to, and do whatever he had to do to survive in the meantime. Now, here they all are, looking at him; and though he wants to fix it for them, though he’s fond of ‘em all, and more than fond of many, he wishes with all his heart that they’d just fuck off and leave him be. Just for a bit.

But no, action is required, decisive action; and so he drains his mug, and stands, and declares that he’s going to go back and talk with the Queen. See if he can make her see sense. Surely, he reasons, a good grovelling apology is all that most women are after; and Jack’s _great_ at those, when the occasion demands.

“Jack,” says Shaftoe, and there’s an edge of caution in his voice; an edge which makes Jack want to scream. Now is not, NOT! the time for mollycoddling and caution!

“ _What_ , Mr Shaftoe?” enquires Jack, with cold and dangerous calm. And he’s relieved to find that Jack Shaftoe can read him well enough to merely blink his darkling blue eyes and say, “I’ll come with you.”

It’s the first offer of many, and Jack has to persuade them all that it’s really not advisable to turn up with fifty-odd armed men, that it would only invite even more trouble than they’ve already got. In the end, he manages to whittle it down to half a dozen; himself and Jack Shaftoe (in case an interpreter is needed, of course; no, no other reason) and Jimmy and Danny (since the Queen likes them, or did until recently, at any rate) and Ana (since she knows exactly what went on aboard the ship) and Black Davies (who, with his bandaged and bloody shoulder, might look helpless and thereby win them a sympathy vote, but who, as Jack very well knows, could and would take on three men even if one of his arms was half hacked off).

*

They are, doubtless, watched from the moment they first set foot on the winding path up the cliff-face, of that much Jack Shaftoe’s certain, but no-one comes to meet them. Accustomed to the social mores of these parts, Jack interprets this as a subtle comment on their supreme irrelevance. Not a good sign.

He walks behind Jack Sparrow, and it’s the hardest thing in the world not to gather that narrow form into his arms, and hold it safe and tight, and to do anything and everything in his power to bring the light back into those eyes, now so flat and brittle. But nothing he can think of would put it right. He has a desperate urge to take up his sword and just go out there, just take the damn ship back, and he knows he’s not the only one; one of the crew voiced it, back in the tavern, and was cut down by Jack Sparrow, dismissive and cold. _Try not to show us just how much of a fool you are, Mr Collins; we are totally out-numbered, totally out-gunned, and, may I remind you, right now we have no way of actually reaching the fucking ship, do we?_ And Ana added, _Aye, that’s the first thing; we need a ship to get a ship, we’re nothing without that._

They reach the gate-house, where a double row of guardsmen stands with angled pikes. A guard steps forward as they approach, levelling his weapon; and Sparrow walks right up to it, till its sharp silver point catches in the fabric of his coat. He raises an imperious hand, beckoning behind him; Jack knows that’s his cue, and walks forward. Trying not to sigh at the futility of this.

“Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_ ,” says that gentleman, “requests an audience with Her Majesty, Kottakkal, Queen of Malabar.” He gives Jack a sideways glance, and Jack repeats this, in his politest Sabir (though that’s unfortunately, a somewhat oxymoronic concept, Sabir being the language of slaves, infidels, degenerates, and general filth).

The pikeman, to Jack’s surprise, smiles a little, and mutters something to his companions; one, from the back of the formation, breaks ranks and jogs up the path to the palace, ducking into a barred doorway.

“Her Majesty,” says the pikeman, in Sabir, “Her All-Seeing, All-Knowing Majesty, said that you would come. And she has a message for you.”

Jack thanks him, though he’s fizzing with suspicion, and translates.

“I don’t want a _message_ ,” says Jack Sparrow, through gritted teeth, “I want a fucking _audience_. A _discussion_. Which will be little more than a two-way monologue, I don’t doubt, but I’d like it nonetheless.”

“Wait,” says Jack; he can see some movement in the darkness of the barred doorway.

“Wait,” and then: “Oh, shit,” says Jack.


	8. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Eight

  


He’d known, really, in the back of his mind; he’d be lying if he denied it. But there it is; the living, breathing—well, wheezing—bleeding truth, bruised and cut and hurt. Jack catches sight of him a moment before the others, standing as he is at the front of their little party, at Jack Sparrow’s side; and even as he speaks, _Oh, shit_ , he steps back and puts a hand out to each of his sons. To warn them, to comfort them, to stop them.

“What in the name of—” cries Sparrow, when he sees the stumbling form of William Turner, pulled forward between two Nayars, emerging from the palace. He takes a step forward, calling, “Will!”, but the pike at his chest is unwavering, and unrelentingly sharp.

“That is your message,” says the pikeman, blankly. Jack translates this, his anger turning the words into verbal buckshot, and he feels both his boys surging forward against his restraining hands as they see Will emerging into the bright sunlight of the courtyard.

He’s trying to walk, they can see that much, but he’s not having much luck. The front of his shirt is dark and crusted, and his hair, matted with sweat and perhaps worse, hangs down over his face. The Nayars, their gleaming dark muscles seeming to emphasise their strength, and consequently his weakness, stride forward impassively, pulling him with them, and he stumbles. He won’t look up. Jack knows Will Turner well enough now to guess that he’s deeply, horribly shamed. By being beaten; by being found; by being found here, for the reasons they all know he was here.

Jimmy and Danny have pushed past him, are struggling with the pikemen, are shouting at their friend, at their Captain, at the guards, and getting nowhere. The barrier of men and steel parts only as the prisoner is brought forward, and thrown down; the Shaftoe boys are there to catch him.

“What the holy _fuck_ is this for?” demands Jack Sparrow, a quiver in his voice, but the Nayar who spoke before shakes his head.

“There is no more message for you,” he says. “Go, now, or I give the order to fire.” And he flicks his eyes upward, to where a row of archers stand, arrows nocked, on the palace’s outer wall.

“Come on, mate,” says Jack, putting a hand on Sparrow’s shoulder. “She’s a stubborn, crazy bitch. This isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“I’m not leaving till—” says Jack Sparrow, and there’s a soft twang, and a puff of dust as an arrow buries itself in the hard ground at his feet.

“Till I have to drag your dead body down the hill?” queries Shaftoe.

“Oh, for… Tell her I’ll be back, this isn’t over with!” Sparrow says fiercely, and turns on his heel, and they make their slow way back down to the town.

Only fifteen men missing now.

*

Jack Sparrow’s dug into their unimpressive financial resources and taken a room; William Turner needs a bit of cleaning up, and the landlord seemed quite unwilling to let them do that in his front parlour. Jack can see why; he’s not exactly a positive advertisement for the place.

Jimmy and Danny have taken him upstairs, and, with the aid of a basin of water, have done their best; and now Jimmy comes back down, and tells Jack that he can come up and talk to Will. They wouldn’t let him, before; he had a hundred questions, and was told he could just fook off and wait, and for some reason, he shut up, and did.

Some reason? Jack knows the reason. The reason is guilt. The foul and sickly guilt that wells in him every time he thinks of Will’s narrow, bloodied, staggering figure appearing at that gate. And he hears his own voice again, his cheerful whispered _Come up the stairs, and the boys are in the second room to port_ ; when he closes his eyes he can see the very moment, can feel Shaftoe’s hard warm body behind him, recalls the happy, sated, post-Shaftoe-fucking daze that filled him. He was so stupid, so very stupid. To be certain, William was stupid too, for coming up; but he’s young, and in lust, and what else could be expected of him? Jack, now, he’s the captain. He’s supposed to know better. He’s supposed to protect his men. But he was too full of himself, and his joy, and his own cleverness, to think of it. He’s sick with the thought of it, now. He’s drunk a lot of rum, while the boys have been upstairs.

“How’s ‘e look?” he asks Jimmy, and Jimmy shrugs, and says that he looked a lot better last time they saw him. But the blood was mostly from a blow to the nose, which started a bleed; ‘part from that, and two black eyes as a result, and a split lip, it’s mostly bruises. Looks worse than it is.

“But don’t let Will know I said that,” says Jimmy, with a sad trace of a grin.

“Absolutely not,” says Jack, and he goes in.

Will’s lying on a nasty straw pallet, covered in a rough sheet, and Danny’s sitting at his head, so that Will can use his thighs for a pillow. Jack thinks that Danny’s stroking Will’s hair when he first opens the door, but the hand moves with lightning speed, and by the time the door’s open, Danny’s leaning back on both hands, nonchalant.

They’ve taken Will’s filthy shirt off, and it sits in the rusty water of the basin; _that ain’t never going to be white again_ , Jack thinks. The boy’s bruising already; has been kicked all down his body. Jack glances at his hands, and stifles a grin. The knuckles are bloodied and torn, and he suspects William Turner gave as good as he got, for a while anyway.

Jack and Jimmy Shaftoe crowd into the room behind him, and they all squat down upon the floor. Jack’s brought up a bottle of rum, and he offers it to Will, who takes it, and drinks, before passing it on. Yes, they should definitely all get drunk tonight.

“So,” says Jack, “you’re more or less in one piece?”

“More or less,” says Will.

“And who’s going to tell me the story? I’druther you did, William, since Danny here was apparently less than completely truthful this morning.”

Danny protests immediately, and Will says, “No, he wasn’t, Jack, he didn’t know; I didn’t tell them that, that… that someone saw me.”

“Saw you? On your way in?” says Shaftoe, who’s leaning back against the wall in the corner of the room, where a dusty shaft of sunlight catches on his bright hair, and shines across his eyes in a way that makes them clearer, bluer, brighter than the loveliest sea that Jack has ever sailed. Oh, god, how Jack wants to be alone with Shaftoe; how lucky he was, last night, and how far down he’s come, in one short day.

“No,” says Will, and his poor bruised face flushes, the redness rolling down his throat, and across his collarbones. Will’s always been given to blushing, and Jack knows what this one means. Your average, ‘oh-how-embarrassing’ blush ends at his jawline. This blush means more.

Jack tries to look stern, and says, “You were _in flagrante_ , then, love?”

“Mmm,” is all that Will manages, and then, “Someone looked, through the door; there was a, a window, a locked window, and I saw an eye there, and they saw me.”

Jack takes another swig of rum, wondering just how much detail is actually necessary here, and how much detail he should inflict on Jack Shaftoe; it’s his sons, after all; but really, he does need to know what they’re dealing with. “How is it,” he enquires, blandly, delicately, “that you saw this eye, and no-one else did? Could you explain the, the, the _physickal arrangement_ that resulted in such a pass?”

Will looks at him beseechingly. Behind him, Jack Shaftoe coughs, but Jack’s interpretation of that sound is that Shaftoe is fighting down a fit of the giggles, and oh, it’s hard not to smile.

Danny says, roughly, “He was standing, all right, Jack? And me and Jimmy, we was kneeling, and not looking at the bloody door.”

Jack nods, gravely. “So whoever it was that looked in saw you, William, and the boys kneeling ‘side you, and can I assume that it wasn’t possible for the watcher to think you were, I don’t know, getting your boots polished?”

“He was getting somethin’ polished,” says Jimmy with a grin. “And you can’t blame whoever-it-was for lookin’, Jack, he’s a fine thing, all bare and panting.” Will looks down, even redder, and there’s a small silence in the room, during which Will realises with despair that every single man in this room has, one way or another, seen him in such a state, and is probably imagining it, right now.

Danny breaks in, truculent: “‘Tain’t nothing but her jealousy, pure an’ simple, that’s bruised up our Will.”

“That’s not all it’s done,” mutters Shaftoe, and Jack has to agree.

“So, she likes you boys that much, eh,” says Jack, and they have the grace to shrug and remain silent under his sharp gaze. It seems ridiculous; but it’s the only reason he can come up with for his ship being taken. Shaftoe passes him the rum again, and he takes it, gratefully.

A reason, maybe. But not a solution. He’s still got no idea how to get the _Black Pearl_ back.

*

By nightfall (one day down; four days to go, before they’re hunted men) the _Pearl_ ’s entire complement has been located, and to Jack Sparrow’s relief, Stone—wonderful, sneaky, quick-handed Stone—happened to’ve spent the previous evening gambling, cheating, and winning, and was good enough to confess it; so they’ve sufficient funds to become thoroughly drunk, and even reasonably fed, and Ana’s rented them half a stable for the night (though they have to share with the livestock). So all their immediate needs are taken care of. The boys are upstairs, where Will Turner’s sleeping; Sparrow and Shaftoe are down in the tavern, with the rest of the company.

There’s just that rather pressing question of what the fuck they’re going to do. Right now, they can’t see any way but one that involves copious quantities of violence. Which, Jack Shaftoe thinks, wouldn’t necessarily be his last choice, right now.

“Have to get a ship, first,” Sparrow says, possibly for the third or fourth time, and waves his tankard at Gibbs for a refill.

“Why don’t we just commandeer some vessel? There’s hundreds about, here,” says Stone.

“Aye,” says Jack, “Hundreds, but most of ‘em slave galleys, and that ain’t no use to you, unless you want to commandeer the slaves too; and I warn you, they require some very Active Management, oar-slaves. Besides which, this place doesn’t work like the Carribee, mate.”

“Wot d’you mean?”

“They’re all the Queen’s,” says Jack. “One giant pirate bloody navy. It’s an interesting combination, that. You take one—”

“Others’ll be after you. All th’others,” slurs Sparrow, and he sighs, and his head falls heavy and dispirited on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack’s never seen him like this. It’s dreadful to see. He’s certain that it’s temporary, and mostly the result of rum and guilt over Turner, but still, it makes his heart ache. He’s not used to seeing the corners of that mouth turned down; not used to watching Jack Sparrow drink to make life go away, instead of drinking to make life even better. He puts a hand on Sparrow’s thigh, under the table, and squeezes him, just to say he’s there. The muscle tenses under his hand, and Sparrow gives a little drunken chuff of amusement; it’s the first happy sound Jack’s heard out of him all day.

Jack’s drunk enough that this leads to two perfectly logical conclusions.

Firstly, he must make Jack Sparrow happy by the quickest means possible.

Secondly, he must do whatever he needs to do to get Sparrow’s ship back, because he’ll never remain happy without her.

Priorities, thinks Jack swimmily, and he spreads his fingers in the dark secrecy beneath the tabletop, and slides his palm up Sparrow’s thigh. Sparrow grins, just a little, and slouches further down, helping Jack’s search for privacy.

“Aye, that’s the problem, with Malabar… all for one, one for all,” says Jack, nodding seriously as his hand cups Sparrow’s twitching cock through his trousers.

“Cain’t we _buy_ her back?” suggests Gibbs, and he ignores the chorus of sighs and shaken heads, disparaging this deeply unpiratical suggestion, and waits for Sparrow’s response. Sparrow says nothing. He’s looking mightily preoccupied.

“Jack?” prompts Gibbs.

“’Scuse me,” says Jack Sparrow, “Back sh-shortly.” And he scrambles to his feet, giving Jack a hard black stare, and staggers outside.

“I better go and, you know; see he’s all right,” says Jack Shaftoe, with a shameless grin, and he strides after Sparrow’s swaying, retreating back.

*

The alleyway is pitch dark, and smells like the outdoor latrine which it doubtless is, and Jack Sparrow, on any other day, wouldn’t even consider standing in it, let alone standing in it and simultaneously leaning against the filthy wall; but now he’s doing all that and more, he’s standing here in the muck and leaning back against splintery black mildew and clutching onto Jack Shaftoe with fingers so rigid they will bruise him, pulling him close and demanding his mouth, his kiss, his saviour warmth. Today, tonight, is not like any other day; everything is strange and wrong, and he’s drunk and drowning in anger and misery and purest rage. And _fuck_ Queen Kottakkal, and all she wants from the Shaftoes, father or sons; for he, Jack Sparrow, has the best and most wonderful of them all, and he’ll have him again, and she can be damned, she can plunge to the lowest deepest hottest level of Hell and stay there, and she’ll never, never have what he has.

For he has Jack Shaftoe’s tongue, fierce and sure; and Jack Shaftoe’s arms about him, so strong and warm, and kissing Jack Shaftoe, though he feels so hazy and dizzy and redly sad, is still like homecoming, like safe harbour, like rightness in a world full of wrongs. He tastes like rum, and smells of oranges and salt, and Jack’s fingertips pluck at long strands of sweat-stuck hair on his neck; they slide down into Shaftoe’s shirt, one over his muscled shoulder and the other down over hard chest, smooth-scarred-smooth skin, and Jack’s little finger touches a gold-pierced nipple, and Shaftoe grunts into Jack’s mouth.

Jack feels like an animal, standing here in the filth and straw and night, pushing his hips hard against Jack Shaftoe’s solid body, twisting a thigh between Shaftoe’s thighs and rubbing his cock on Shaftoe’s hip, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care. Shaftoe can bring him forgetfulness that the rum couldn’t; Shaftoe can bring him oblivion.

“’S’not too s’lubrious, eh. Not like last night,” Jack pants into Shaftoe’s ear, “but I don’t fucking care, Jack, come here, oh god come here,” and his clumsy fingers struggle with Shaftoe’s breeches. Oh, stupid things, get out of the way, he wants skin, skin, skin; he pushes up Shaftoe’s shirt, pulls at his own, and groans as their bellies come into slick, sweatily delicious contact. Jack Shaftoe’s fervid mouth is at his throat, and he lets his head fall back against the wooden wall with a thump that he’d probably feel if he wasn’t quite so pissed, and Shaftoe bites him, and he gasps, and there, finally, he’s breached the breeches, and he pushes at them, wanting them down. Shaftoe shakes with laughter and growls, “Stop it, you fucking savage, anyone could pass!” as, almost on cue, a laughing group of young Malabaris scamper past the end of the alleyway, and the two of them still, Jack’s hand already down on Shaftoe’s muscled hip.

“’M I s’posed to care about that?” demands Jack, _sotto voce_ ; “What d’they expect a man to do, when they’ve taken his ship, if not to ‘swage his misery? ‘Sides, Jack, ‘sides, it’s _you_. Can’t not. Can’t…”

“Assuage your misery, eh,” murmurs Shaftoe (who’s thinking, yes, that’s what I want to do, and how right you are, I couldn’t give a fuck for any passing foreigner), and he cups Jack’s waist, ‘neath his shirt, in his big callused hands. “Tell me what would assuage you, then, mate, and I’ll do it. Right here, right now, whatever you might desire.”

Fifty filthy alternatives scamper through Jack’s hazy head, but no, no, he won’t have Shaftoe kneel in this filth, and certainly not lie in it, and he runs his hands back round over that sweet muscular arse and can almost taste the yeasty, milky skin _ah Christ the softness of the hair just there, just where I could slide—_ but no, no, Jack’s mouth is captured again by wondrous Jack Shaftoe’s, and that’s the source of it, the source of his relief and joy is being close as close and face to face with Shaftoe, so that’s the way it must be, but there’s no fucking _way_ he can fuck the man from this angle, but oh he wants to just, to just—

Jack Shaftoe’s hand, down in Jack’s breeches, slides over his hip, turning so that rough knuckles scrape the delicate skin there, turning so that long strong fingers can wrap themselves around Jack’s cock, and he groans and temporarily forgets pretty much everything else. Their kiss is getting harsher, messier, and Shaftoe’s pushing back against him, heavy and hard, and Jack’s scrabbling awkwardly ‘tween Shaftoe’s thighs, and Shaftoe parts his legs, standing wide to give Jack access, and humming happily as Jack strokes him, back behind his balls, back at the root of his cock-that-was. And mmm, it’s warm and wonderful in there, and Jack loves those thighs, the soft hot skin and the pale, curling hairs and the wood-hard muscle of them, and that’d be enough, enough, oh yes.

He mutters into Shaftoe’s open, panting mouth: “Just let me, just, ah god your legs Jack Shaftoe are something unbelievable, I swear,” and he guides Shaftoe’s holding hand in between those solid thighs, and breeches are pulled and stretched and maybe going to rip but who cares, and anyway (if Shaftoe’s still worried about it, though he’s showing no sign) their modesty (ha!) is more or less intact. And Jack carefully lifts Shaftoe’s balls forward, till they rest warm at the base of his own cock, and they’re likely to be crushed but c’est la vie, beggars and pirates and alleyway fornicators can’t be choosers, and Shaftoe knows what Jack’s after anyway, and brings his thighs together and flexes as he sighs and grinds; Jack squeaks deep in his throat, the muscles on it, the muscles! And he reaches back round, one hand on those fabulous buttocks, one reaching up the strong scarred back, and he pulls Jack Shaftoe close to him, oh closer closer please closer.

Shaftoe’s pulling their shirts up and up in his search for skin, and thrusting his tongue into Jack’s mouth, all hot energy and burn and Shaftoeyness; his Remnant digs hard into the taut muscles above Jack’s pelvic bone as Jack thrusts and thrusts and fucks all his anger into the close heat of Jack Shaftoe’s thighs, building up a terrible and wonderful friction and burn which is taking him to some place right on the sharp borderline of pleasure and pain, just where he wants to be, for it’s the only thing intense enough to drive out the ghosts and demons of all that this day’s brought to him.

And he spends with a groan and a sob as Jack Shaftoe gasps and mutters in his ear, “I, god, I love you, Jack Sparrow, and I’ll get her back for you, so help me, I’ll get her back.”


	9. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Nine

  


It isn’t late when he half-carries Sparrow upstairs to William’s room (“’M not sleepin’ in a fuckin’ PIG PEN, y’c’n FUCK OFF”; “Shut up, Jack, no-one’s asking you to; come on, nonono don’t sit down there, come on I said”) and deposits him in the corner, having helped him out of his coat and turned it into a makeshift pillow. Jimmy and Danny are dicing by candlelight in the corner, standing guard over their Will, and they shake their heads when they see the state of Jack Sparrow. Sparrow’s oblivious, and asleep in moments, breathing heavily; and in sleep, his face finally loses the expression of pain that it’s borne all day.

“Someone’s having trouble rolling wi’ the punches,” says Danny dismissively. As a Shaftoe, this is of course one of his natural specialties in life. Change—even the entirely radical, sudden, unlooked for, and life-altering sort—is just one of those things; and consequently, Jack Sparrow’s drunken misery seems to him a weakness.

“It’s his _ship_ ,” says Jack. “Have a little compassion, for God’s sake. He lost her once before, you know; took him ten years to get her back.”

“Aye, aye,” mutters Jimmy with very little sympathy, having already heard this tale on several occasions. “Searched the wide world over, never gave up, risked all to have her back, we know.”

Jack narrows his eyes at his sons, who seem to be entirely without gratitude or understanding this evening, and crouches down between them, overlooking their game.

“That’s a rather unkind attitude, considering that it’s all your fucking fault,” he notes.

“Hardly!”

“’Twas Will as came to us, Dad!”

“’Twas you as told the Queen we were here. ‘Twas you as got yourselves invited to her palace, and you who turned her down when she did exactly as you knew she would do, and called for you.”

“We didn’t _know_ she would,” says Jimmy, but he flicks a glance at his brother, and Jack can read some shared joke between ‘em. Devils they are, cocky devils.

“And ‘twas you who fucked Will Turner in her stead, in her very home.”

“Oh,” says Danny, “and d’ye ‘magine that we could hear nothing from your room, ye great hypocrite?” He and Jack scowl at one another, and Jack thinks this is really, surely, one of the oddest father/son relationships that’s ever developed.

“All that aside,” he manages, fighting down the warm flush of memory and desire that rises in him as he thinks of what sounds may, possibly, have emanated from their room last night. (He’s susceptible to such thoughts, having been left cruelly unsatisfied in that foul alley, refusing Sparrow’s offer of his mouth upon him; he couldn’t, wouldn’t make wondrous Jack Sparrow kneel in the foetid muck of that place, no matter how much he wanted it.) “All that aside, boys, we’re going to fix this problem, and fix it now.”

“Oh aye, and how’s that?”

“We’re going to give her,” says Jack Shaftoe grimly, “what she wants.”

Danny and Jimmy’s hands still, and there’s a thin clatter of scrimshaw on wood as the dice fall unheeded. They stare at their father, and Danny shakes his head.

“No we’re fooking not.”

“Yes, we fucking are, Daniel Shaftoe.”

“But, Da—”

“But nothing,” says Jack, with a fearsome glare. “We’re getting that bloody ship back. And then… then, well, we’ll worry about the rest of it later. They all said it, downstairs; they can’t do anything without their ship. Once they’ve got her back, they can…” He trails off.

“Can come and get us, you mean?” says Jimmy. “That’s what you mean, ain’t it? That you’ll trade me an’ Dan for that fooking ship?”

“Yes,” says Jack, his heart quietly breaking at the looks on his sons’ faces.

“And what the fook makes you think that we’ll do such a thing?” whispers Danny in an enraged hiss, glancing over at sleeping Will, who’s stirred at Jimmy’s voice.

“You can come with me calm, and be heroes,” says Jack, “or I can tell the company that they can take you themselves.”

“You can’t—”

Jack nods, his jaw set. “Watch me, boys.”

*

Jimmy and Danny are waiting for him on the stairs; they’ve left their samurai swords in the corner of the room, in Will’s keeping, and Jack turned away as they both bent carefully and kissed the boy’s closed eyelids.

He leans now over Jack Sparrow, and reaches out with one trembly finger, tracing the arch of eyebrow, the line that seems to mock him even in sleep. Wishing he could risk stroking that warm skin, but not wanting to wake him.

He sees the pocket of Sparrow’s coat, luckily not bunched under his head, and carefully reaches in, smiling to himself as he finds that piece of paper, already creased and worn; he opens it and, as if reading, he runs his finger over the crooked words, and whispers, “I, Jack Shaftoe, tell you, Jack Sparrow, that I love you,” and tucks it, talismanic, into Sparrow’s half-closed hand.

He leans his Janissary sword in the corner with the boys’ weapons, blows out the candle, and shuts the door behind him.

*

At the palace gates, he asks for Darius. He knows that he is right in his assumption about her asking price for the _Pearl_ ’s return, because the interpreter is there within minutes.

“We wish to see Her Majesty,” says Jack, and that’s all; Darius looks at him, at the boys, with a deep sadness, and they all recognise that this was the deal waiting to be struck, all along. Jack turns to look at Jimmy and Danny as they’re led along the torch-lit passages and leafy corridors, and they look pale and miserable. Ah, god, he’s sorry for this; but. The alternative was too cruel.

They wait at the entrance to the banquet hall for only a moment, while the guards check them for weapons, and stare at them with suspicion when they find none.

Kottakkal sits on her ornate throne, up on the dais, watching sleek and sinuous dancers before her; she glances up at the Shaftoes as they enter, and then turns back to the dance, waiting until it’s over. Then she stands, and walks over to the great arched window, beckoning them to her side.

Jack can hardly bear to look out on that same night-dark sea, the same fat creamy moon that he stood and watched last night, with his arms round Jack Sparrow’s hard-muscled waist, his face buried in the warmth of his love’s black hair. He’s so angry at her he can hardly bear her presence, the evil—

“Why are you here, Jackshaftoe?” says the Queen, through her interpreter, and she looks hard, not at Jack but at the boys, as she says it.

“Your Majesty’s wishes are of course our own,” says Jack blankly (blank being the politest he can manage right now; he’s not good at obsequious even at the best of times). “And I believe you wish to have the company of my sons.”

“I have a fondness for them,” says Kottakkal, though her face would belie it.

“Excellent,” says Jack. “So I’m hoping you might want to reconsider your earlier decision vis-à-vis the _Black Pearl_.”

“The what?”

Oh, she’s monstrous. “The ship,” says Danny fiercely. “The ship you took from our, our friends. Release it, or there’s no deal here, none.”

Jack kicks him, and Danny and the Queen both give him a glare.

“The pleasure of your company,” says Kottakkal, poking Danny in the chest, “would be much lessened if it were not _willing_ and _enthusiastic_ company.”

“You’re as willing as can be, ain’t you, boys,” says Jack through gritted teeth, and they manage fairly creditable grins and nods; he’s briefly proud of them, and then reminds himself that they’re rude, vain and selfish, and he doesn’t like them at all right now, and that’s how come he can bring himself to trade them like whores for Jack Sparrow’s happiness. This may just be the wickedest thing he’s ever done in his life.

But it’ll be alright. Sparrow will come for them. This is a temporary trade, no more. And it’s not as if this isn’t something they’ve done before, from clear choice, is it? Not as if this isn’t something they’ve been boasting about all over the East Indies, the little buggers. So now they can make good on all those claims of Royal Eastern Decadence.

Kottakkal turns her cold dark gaze on Jack, and the Imp of the Perverse, who’s cowering behind him, clutching onto his breeches like some unnerved infant, squeaks _crocodile eyes in’t it Jack oooh crocodile_ ; and he can’t disagree. Beautiful she may be, but deadly with it, and oh, he hopes those boys can deliver.

“So now I know why your sons are here, Jackshaftoe, but the reason for your presence remains a mystery.”

“I can be gone if it please you,” says Jack, perfidiously, not looking at the boys; “Just as soon as we’ve completed our negotiations.”

“They are complete,” she says, ignoring the question of whether or not Jack should be on his way.

“I beg to differ, Your Majesty; we’ve offered you, well,” and he waves his hand vaguely at the boys, “but you’ve not yet given us your word that you’ll release the _Pearl_.”

Her nostrils flare a little as this is translated, and the Imp whimpers at Jack’s recklessness.

“In Malabar,” says the Queen, exercising her royal right of non-sequitur, “it is customary, when trading, to sample the offered wares.”

“With respect, you’ve sampled the hell out of them already, or so I’ve heard tell.”

“That was some time since. And they may not still be capable of pleasing a _woman_ ,” says Kottakkal, and Jesus Christ, Jack wouldn’t be the boys for the world right now. She’s a savage.

But Jimmy, to Jack’s delight, merely laughs mockingly at this assertion; and then he bows low before her, and glances up at her, as if asking permission. She smiles with sharp white teeth, and his son steps close to her, so close that her astonishing breasts meet the rough embroidery of his vest, and he leans down and kisses her. Puts a hand to her spine and curves her backward; and as she bends, Danny’s right there behind her, supporting her, and putting his mouth to her ear.

Jack watches his sons saving Jack Sparrow, and remembers why he loves them with all his heart.

*

Yesterday, he’d thought he felt about as bad as it was possible to feel. And yet today, he’s somehow managed to make it even _worse_.

Oh, god, his head, his lurching stomach, and the horrid wobbling spin of this room; Jesus, he hasn’t had a hangover like this for years. So now he still doesn’t have a ship, and, temporarily at least he can’t actually speak. Or open his eyes. Or stand. But apparently… yes, he can manage a groan, which is a start, he supposes.

“Jack?”

Jack groans again, in an acknowledging sort of a way, and reaches out beside himself, running a hand over the dirty wooden floor, Shaftoe-seeking. Nothing.

There’s quiet laughter from the other side of the room. “I thought I was supposed to be the one under the weather,” says Will.

Jack runs his tongue over furry teeth. Ugh. Anyway, yes, Will. Beaten up. Hurt. Yes. Should be solicitous. “Y’all right?” he manages.

“Ye-ees,” says Will, and Jack can hear him moving about, maybe sitting up. “Water?” he says, hopefully, and hears leathery feet padding towards him.

“Here,” says Will, without much sympathy in his voice, and he heaves Jack into a sitting position, shoving a bottle into his hands. Gingerly, Jack opens an eye; and there’s Will Turner, crouched on the balls of his feet, his torso purpled and bruised, two black eyes and a split lip. “I can’t believe _I’m_ looking after _you_ ,” Will grumbles, and Jack has to admit he has a point. He takes a drink.

“Where’re your nurses?”

“I don’t know, they weren’t here when I woke; they can’t be far, their swords are right there.”

More importantly, “Where’s Jack?”

Will shrugs again.

Damned Vagabonds! Always wandering off at the most inopportune moments! Jack’s about to voice this complaint in some blasphemous detail, when there’s a knock on the door, and he hears Ana: “Jack, you need to come downstairs.”

“Why?” says Jack, sick and truculent.

“The Queen’s man is here, and wants to see you.”

Oh shit, shit, shit, what more does she want? His clothes, his fucking _hat_? Jack heaves a sigh, and rubs his free hand over his face.

Which feels rather strange, since there’s a piece of paper stuck to his palm.

“Jack?” calls Ana, impatient.

“Yes, yes… coming…” But Jack is not coming. He’s squinting blearily at his one and only Shaftoe Love Note. What’s that doing in his hand? He really _was_ drunk. Clutching it all night like a babe with some damned dolly. Jesus.

“Jack?” says Will, a little more gently than that harpy outside the door, and he bends to look up at Jack’s face. So dear, that boy; all concerned, with his ridiculous purple eye-sockets and his swollen nose. “Are you all right?”

“’Course I am,” says Jack, and with a degree of effort which is completely heroic and yet tragically unsung, he staggers to his feet, needing only a very little help from the wall. Will passes him his coat, and down they go.

*

‘The Queen’s man’ is Darius, again, and he stands outside the tavern in the morning sunshine. The cohort of Nayars at his back are entering into a staring competition with the _Pearl_ ’s company, ranged along the verandah; Jack’s pleased to see that none of his men are stupid enough (or, possibly, feeling well enough) to’ve started anything.

“Captain Sparrow,” says Darius, looking him up and down. Jack tries to stand up a little straighter, and looks down his nose at the taller man. This is no mean feat, but Jack knows the trick of it.

“What?” says Jack. “And make it snappy, I haven’t got all day,” he lies, for good measure.

“Your vessel is back in port, and you may take possession of her immediately.”

Jack frowns to himself and bites his tongue to check whether he is in fact awake, or dreaming. Possibly hallucinating, actually. But his tongue claims not.

“Could do with a little more exposition on this one,” he tells Darius.

“Her Majesty accepts your trade, and returns your ship.”

“My trade.”

_My trade_. Jack glances round at his men, and reconfirms what he suspected, and something deep in his guts ties itself into a very tight, cold knot. There are no Shaftoes here.

“I hate to tell you this,” he says, “but I made no trade. And if her Majesty happens to’ve _acquired_ anything that, that _belongs_ to me, I should appreciate its return.”

Darius blinks his slow, heavy lids and takes a step forward, speaking low, as if for Jack’s ears only. “They are hers, now,” he says. “Take your ship, and be glad of it. For they are glad of it; it was their desire, and their choice.” Louder, he says, “You have until noon to leave our waters, and past that time, you shall be considered an enemy vessel. Do not tarry, Captain.”

How can this be? What cruel trick is this, that he can either have Jack Shaftoe, or his ship, and not both? How can that choice be made? Jack’s mind is whirling, and the sun is beating hotly down, and he can feel sweat running down his back beneath his heavy, dirty clothes.

“We can’t go without—” he starts, and feels Gibbs’ hand, heavy on his shoulder. “Jack,” says his First Mate, urgently, “they’re giving the _Pearl_ back. Think on’t. Think.”

Jack can feel sixty-five pairs of eyes boring into his spine. He’s their captain too, never mind that Jack Shaftoe’s more to him than all of them put together. Their captain too.

*

Through the small, high, ornately barred window, Jack can see a small part of the rivermouth, where it debouches, wide and jade-pale, into the sea. He sees the black canvas raised; sees the sweeps drawn in as ocean winds fill the sails. Watches, for the second time in his life, as Jack Sparrow sails away.


	10. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Ten

  


“Jesus Christ, man, a _flying jib_?” cries Jack as he comes on deck, before he’s even certain of who the perpetrator of this terrible crime could be. Turns out he’s shouting at his first mate, who stands stoic on the quarterdeck and doesn’t react to the tone of Jack’s voice, nor to the black scowl upon his face.

Jack stalks aft, shouting still, and waving his arms at every man he sees: “Get it down, and the top-gallants too; what’s the point of full sail when we haven’t, gentlemen, determined exactly where we’re going? Eh?”

Mr Gibbs does not appreciate being countermanded on his watch. His face is stony. “South, Captain,” he informs Jack. “As discussed, before you headed off for another _nap_. South, which’ll take us to Madagascar, if’n we add a little west to it.”

Jack climbs to the helm, and faces him down. “We’re not going to Madagascar, though, are we, mate? We can’t go yet, because, if you recall, we’re three men down.”

There’s a long silence, in which Jack’s remaining scraps of even temper, which have been frail and delicate of late, slip into oblivion.

“Three. Men. Down,” he says again. Gibbs won’t look at him.

He hears steps behind, and AnaMaria’s voice. “Would you go against the Code, Jack?”

“They didn’t _fall behind_ ; we left them there.” His heart is thumping in an angry, nauseated way as he says these words. _I left them there. I left **him** there._

He wants to be sick every time he thinks of it, and he’s thought of it every minute of the day, and dreamt of it every minute of the night, in the endless time since they sailed. The weather has been, is, a sailor’s dream, bright and breezy and in the right direction, too; Gibbs is right, he knows, to deploy canvas. If, of course, they are trying to sail south with any measure of alacrity.

But every mile south is another mile away from Jack Shaftoe; every mile south, Jack feels sicker and paler and wickeder and stupider, and at this rate, if they _do_ reach Madagascar, he’ll be bed-ridden and simple-minded, he’s sure of it.

“We can’t go back, Jack,” Ana says; she puts her small, rough hand on his arm, and he flinches from it, though he knows she means well enough. “The _Pearl_ can’t sail into that harbour, and you know it. And you saw the coast, the fortifications, how far down they control Kerala.”

“The men won’t have it, Jack. They liked Jack and the boys and all, to be sure, but they know, and so do you, that it’d be plain suicide. You’ll have a mu—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” cries Jack, stopping his First Mate’s mouth with a quick brown hand, “even _say_ that damnable word to me, Mr Gibbs, I warn you.”

Gibbs pushes Jack’s hand away, and narrows his eyes. He steps close to Jack, and he says, low, “Don’t think I don’t know what you left behind, Jack. But you’ve never been attached to anyone for long, in all the years I’ve known you; and don’t tell me that this is any different. And don’t tell me that you’d see this ship and this crew go down, just so’s you can say you tried.”

Jack’s never been closer to hitting his friend in his life. But he won’t; he clenches his fists and he _won’t_ ; his throat is tight and sore with rage, and all he can say is, “This. Is. Different.” And before Gibbs can say another word, he stalks off down below.

Back down to his hideously empty cabin, where he’s been lying alone for interminable hours, still as a statue, his brain racing with questions. Why, why did Shaftoe do this? He didn’t _want_ to leave, did he? (Jack has never known himself to be quite this paranoid; he’s always been supremely confident of his own charms, and yet, Jack Shaftoe _keeps running off on him._ ) And what the hell has Kottakkal done with him? She only wanted the boys; oh, Lord, what’s happened to his Jack? His handsome, brave, bright, funny, strong love? The recurrent dream, at the moment, features a lot of crocodiles. It’s vile, just vile.

There’s a hunched figure at his table when he walks in, and it jumps as he slams the door, exorcising some of his anger and frustration. It’s Will, his bruises greening at the edges, looking up at Jack and clearly reading Jack’s mood. He’s got a map spread out on the table, held down with a bottle of rum, a knife, and an overripe mango.

“Don’t put that on the map, it’ll ruin it,” says Jack, crochety, snatching up the fruit. Will flattens the curling corner with his hand instead.

“Sorry, Jack; I just wanted to… to look, for…” He shrugs.

Jack sits down opposite him, throwing his tricorne down in the corner and pocketing the mango. “I know,” he says, and they exchange a wry glance. The only two who understand, even though Jack really can’t imagine that William understands everything. At least he seems to have _some_ idea, even if it’s only a pale shadow of what Jack’s going through.

“There must be a way to get them back,” says Will, running a finger down the long coastline of Kerala, past Malabar. “How far down does she control the coast?”

“Too fucking far.”

“What about overland, Jack? Could we not land south, or north, and travel overland to Malabar?”

Jack sighs, and squints round at the map. “Look at it, Will; Kerala’s the narrowest strip of land, all the way, ‘twixt the mountains and the sea. We’re not mountain goats, we’d be mad to take on the Western Ghats. And there’s no way we can pass unobserved along that little corridor. And then we’d have to break them out of the palace; though I don’t expect that’d be too much of a trial, we could manage that… but then the journey back… ah, it would all take months. Overland ain’t the way to go about it.”

Will looks up, worry in his face. “How long is too long, Jack? Will they be all right, there?”

Jack’s filled with blackness again. “The boys’ll be fine, I’ve no doubt,” he says; and both of them can hear his unspoken words, being, _but I don’t know about Jack_.

“Perhaps they’ve left, already, perhaps they’ve found a way to escape,” says Will. Jack can hear a dreamy edge creeping into his voice as he thinks of the boys, and it’s almost enough to make him smile.

“I hope not,” says Jack. “Or we’ll never bloody find them.”

“Oh, if only we were back West!” says Will. “We could trade ships with one of your friends, and go back, and they’d never know it was us, would they, till it was too late. But we’re so far from home, Jack, there’re no friendly faces here, none; no-one who’ll help us.”

“No-oooo,” says Jack, and a slow smile blazes its way across his face. “You’re right, Will. _We_ haven’t got any friends at all.”

Will looks up at him with a question on his face, and then a measure of alarm as Jack shoots to his feet, and comes running around the table, throwing his arms around Will and crushing him tight. “You’re worth your weight in wootz, you are!” cries Jack, and Will, laughing, struggles in his grip.

“Are you serious, Jack? You think we can…?” But Jack is already pounding back along the corridor, shouting back over his shoulder: “Abso-fucking-lutely, William!” and then bellowing up the companionway: “Mr Gibbs! Belay that order! Get that jib up, and catch that wind!”

*

The rains have come to Malabar, and for weeks the sky has been dark, filled with the roar of the warm downpour. Down in the town, streets run with mud, and people huddle inside, waiting it out, offering up a variety of prayers, incense, and minor sacrifice to whatever deities control the deluge that they might see fit to end it before it brings the floods and death that, some years, wreak havoc on this place.

Up in the palace, the Queen requires a lot of careful Entertaining, and Jimmy and Danny have been busy. But this afternoon, she’s given them leave to visit their father; the first time in weeks.

The outside passageways are all but deserted, dripping wetly, cool and gloomily loud. Jimmy and Danny Shaftoe, having largely grown up in Ireland, are entirely immune to the rain, however; besides which, this is not cold, icy Irish rain. This is more like a bath. They make their way, silent and taciturn, to the eastern wing of the palace; a place where few men go.

They are challenged at the great wrought-iron gate which separates this part of the palace from the rest, and must present their written permission from Kottakkal, a paper which they’ve paid for in numerous ways, over several weeks; she’s reneged upon her promises a dozen times, the witch, but today—capricious as ever—she decided to fulfil them.

The guard skims the paper, squints at her seal, and opens the gate. The boys walk through into a wide grassy courtyard where the air is thick with the smell of wet flowers, and are told to wait in the cloister which runs along the rear of the courtyard. One of the guards opens a small door with a disproportionately large key, and disappears inside.

*

Jack Shaftoe knows this is as good as a prison, and he knows he should be very, very angry about a whole raft of things, but really, it’s hard to work up any great rage right now. He’s lying on a plump collection of aromatic, silken pillows, and surrounded by six giggling, bare-breasted women who are playing a complicated game of chance with black and white stones, the outcome of which determines who, exactly, will be given the honour of hand-feeding Jack his lunch.

For Jack Shaftoe is the only (uncastrated) man these women are permitted any contact with. He is the only man to inhabit this wing of the palace. He is, officially, their protector; and unofficially, their amusement and plaything.

These six lonely women, the youngest barely out of her teens, the eldest approaching Jack’s own age, are the sisters of Queen Kottakkal. And, in a country in which lineage passes through the females of a family, they are Kottakkal’s—or her sons’, which amounts to the same thing—greatest enemies. Royal timebombs; the production of an heir presumptive, by any one of these women, would present the greatest possible threat to Kottakkal’s dynasty, a rallying point for her foes.

But the current Queen is not entirely vicious; being a regent of modern inclinations, she hasn’t, as tradition demands, had them killed. Instead, she keeps them nearby, and safe under her watchful eye. Protected from men; locked away. And, to the Malabari mind, by putting Jack here she has offered him the greatest possible insult. He is so little of a man, that he can perform the duties of a eunuch.

These ladies, however, know the difference between Jack Shaftoe and a eunuch. They are used to the gentle, emasculated creatures that wait upon them, and those half-men have none of Jack Shaftoe’s fire and spit. He was so very terrifyingly angry, when he first arrived; they were quite cowed by his raging, his pounding upon the doors and barred windows, his ceaseless and noisy demands to be released, and reunited with his sons, and with his own Jack.

Oh, they have heard all about this other Jack, in great detail (this being another factor which has most definitely endeared Shaftoe to them); and, while they are faintly jealous of him, they love to hear such tales. They adore the look that comes into Jack Shaftoe’s eyes when he speaks of his pirate love. They blush at the flush in his cheeks. They love the fact that, sometimes, he permits them to attempt to assuage his misery with sweet touches and kisses, just for a little while, before he cries no, and laughs, and pushes them away.

They are most put out when the guard enters and announces that Jack has visitors. Particularly the youngest, who was on the cusp of winning.

“It’s all right, my sweets,” says Jack in Sabir, a language that two of the cleverer princesses have mastered to a certain extent, and they whisper rapidly to the others. “I’ll be back shortly, I don’t doubt.”

*

He couldn’t be more delighted to see the boys, and though they resist it, he hugs them repeatedly, and rubs their hair, and beams at the sight of them. He asks the guard to bring them a jug of bhang lassi, and it arrives momentarily, cold and milky and sweet.

“So, boys, are you all right? How’s that witch treating you?” he asks.

Jimmy and Danny look at one another, and roll their eyes, and shake their heads.

“Are you managing to keep her happy, then?”

Danny laughs, shortly, and shakes his head more. Jack notices that his son’s neck is covered with red markings; someone has been vampirical in his vicinity.

“You keep just shaking your heads at me; are you going to be any more forthcoming than this, or shall we leave it at that?” he enquires. There’s a moment’s resentful silence.

“Have you _any_ idea,” Jimmy says finally, “What you did, giving us to her? Any?”

“What?” Sighs, and more silence. “What?” Jack demands, not used to such reticence in his sons.

“If it were just a question of keeping _her_ happy,” says Danny, “I imagine it’d be achievable.”

“But…? Jesus, boys, will you out with it?”

“She LENDS US OUT,” shouts Jimmy, smacking a fist on the table and glaring at his father, who pours him some of the lassi, and says, rather faintly, “Drink that, son, it’ll calm you.”

There’s a small silence while the boys do, at least, take this piece of fatherly advice. Jack looks them over; no wonder they’ve dark shadows under their eyes.

“Well,” he says, attempting to look on the bright side, “you were always keen on a little Oriental Decadence, weren’t you?”

Danny just scowls, slouched in his chair; Jimmy mutters, “Of our own choosing, mebbe. But Jaysus, Dad, you should see some o’ this lot.”

“If you can’t do it, you can’t do it,” says Jack, practically, but this is definitely the wrong thing to say. Danny shucks off his vest, and shows the long, raw welts over his shoulderblade. Jack winces.

“It’s a fookin’ good thing that we’ve got fine imaginations, that’s all I can say,” says Danny.

“It won’t be for long, it won’t,” says Jack, his heart ripped in six by the trade he’s made, and praying that he’s speaking the truth. He’s reasonably certain of it, himself.

But the boys glance at one another in that twin-way that they have, and Danny says, a little more gently, “Dad, it’s been a month already.”

“Well, they’re just making a plan,” says Jack.

The rain drips, and drips, and drips, and Jimmy stares at the sky, and Danny bites his lip, and finally says, “They’re not coming, Dad.”

“Yes, they fucking _are_ ,” says Jack, nostrils flaring with a sudden burst of anger.

“No, they’re not. If we want to get out of here, it’s up to _us_ to do something about it,” says Jimmy, fiercely.

“Boys, if we leave, how the hell will we ever find them again, eh? They know where we are, and I cain’t say the reverse.”

“’Tis all very well for you to say so, locked in here with the Royal Spinsters, lyin’ about drinkin’ fookin’ bhang all day,” hisses Danny, leaning across the table, his eyes flashing with determination, “but me and Jimmy, Da, understand this: we are _whores_. And we won’t take it no more. I’ve paid for that fookin’ ship, twenty times over, and I’m no measure of a man if I stay here and pay again.”

Jack breathes deep, and stares at his sons.

He’s been so sure, so very sure, that Jack Sparrow was on his way to get him. Them. Had they not promised it to one another, clear and true? Had he not said to Sparrow, _should I take it upon myself for some mysterious reason to disappear, you’ll come after me, and follow me to the ends of the earth if necessary; but you must never let me be lost again_ , and had Sparrow not agreed to it? Proclaimed his love? Said that he could not bear to be without him?

Yes, all those things; but Jack has also seen, now, what it is to Jack Sparrow to lose his ship, his _Pearl_. His first love. And that, perhaps, is something that outweighs all those other promises.

His sons are watching him, waiting for his agreement; but he has a sneaking suspicion that his assent is not in fact a necessary condition of their determination to make an escape. And they have every reason for that, don’t they?

“All right,” he says at last, his voice barely audible over the rainfall on the roof. “When the rains stop; we’ll make our plans. When the rains stop, we’ll leave.”


	11. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Eleven

  


The longer he stays here, the more bhang lassi he manages to down every afternoon, the harder the thought of leaving becomes; and yet, every day, the end of the rainy season—and the time for their departure—creeps nearer. Every day, the downpour starts later; finishes earlier. Jack’s abed early tonight, and is enjoying the roar of rain, the cool it brings to the air, the insects it keeps away, but he knows it won’t last much longer. Since he’s come to like falling asleep in the numbing noise of it, he closes his eyes determinedly.

Alas, closing his eyes is not, currently, an easy route to sleep. It is, however, an infallible route to memory, and here it comes; what will Jack’s brain present him with tonight? Ah, there; tonight, Jack Sparrow’s dancing on the deck of his _Pearl_ , hair flying, young body writhing and slamming ‘neath the beat of the drum, and a long-dead pirate captain is whispering in Jack’s ear, _Don’t let him do it to you, boy. It’ll eat you up and you’ll never get what you want_.

_But I did, o I did get what I wanted, and more_ , thinks Jack; and he feels a twist in his face at the thought of having lost it all, again, and throws an arm up over his eyes, and grinds his teeth. Pushes his thoughts, instead, back t’ward that perfect moment when he’d borne Jack Sparrow back against the mast and kissed him, hard, and shown him how much he was desired. He feels a stirring in the Remnant at the thought of himself, whole and hard, pressing against Sparrow’s hip, and it’s a cruel, delicious torture.

Were he still whole, of course, it would doubtless be a simple matter to relieve himself of these accumulating humours, and get some sleep. As it is, he’s beginning to wonder whether, without Jack Sparrow’s intervention, he’ll ever sleep easy again. He’s on the verge of giving it a try, anyway (surely the vivid dancing spectre of his love will lend an imaginary hand?) when he registers a sound of breathing; a slight creak of his door.

“Let me guess,” he says, in Sabir, without uncovering his eyes; “Indilla has come to see me?”

A soft giggle, and a rustle of silk, and the pressure of someone leaning on the side of his bed. Indilla; the third princess, the best speaker of Sabir, the one who’s the most hopelessly taken with their exotic new custodian. Indilla with her black-lined eyes and quirking smile, who wears her hair long rather than follow the court fashion, led by her sister, for a cropped head; who likes to read books to Jack, as her sisters feed him; who likes, even more than that, to hear his stories.

“You should be abed,” says Jack, still not looking at her. He feels bad, whenever he does, because she’s so very sweet; and in other circumstances… well. But as it is, they’re a hopeless pair.

“Yes, Jack,” says Indilla with mocking obedience, and climbs onto his bed and under the sheet, all warm silk and jasmine-smell.

“Don’t!” says Jack, but it’s far too late, and she’s so wriggly and giggly at her own naughtiness that he really can’t bring himself to protest it. It’s nice, after all, to have another body to lie beside.

‘Tis a little much, though, when she slides her curious hand over his swollen Credential, and says, “Do you dream of Jacksparrow?”

A tremor runs through him at the touch, coming to him together with that name, and he says, “Always.”

“Will he one day find you?” she whispers, as though prompting him for some fabulation.

Jack’s silent for a moment, and then says, gruffly, “Doesn’t look like it, does it?”

“Do not be so sad, my Jack,” she says, and her little hand is on the side of his face now, turning him to her, and she stares across the pillow with warm, dark eyes. “You have friends, here. But he will come, one day.”

“How’s that, then?” he says, turning towards her, and nearly putting an arm over her, till he decides it’s something that could be badly misinterpreted.

“Because he loves you as you love him,” she says, confidently and reassuringly. He can see that she believes this; funny thing that she is, to’ve been locked away here where Love’s forbidden, and yet to trust in all those stories and sweetnesses with her whole heart.

And Jack, knowing that soon he and the boys will be gone, gets a sudden idea. Indilla can be trusted, he’s sure of it.

“Indy, my sweet,” he says, “can I tell you a secret thing?”

Her eyes light up and she nods, biting her lip. “A thing about Jacksparrow’s love?” she asks, a little breathily, and he grins; who’d’ve thought that you could get a girl so bloody enthusiastic by talking to her about a fellow? “No,” he says, and then amends it with “Maybe later,” when her face falls; “But there’s something very important that I might need you to do for me.”

“Of course.”

“If,” Jack says, carefully, “If he _were_ to come; and I was… not here… would you give him a message for me?”

“Why would you not be here, Jack?”

One of her eyebrows has quirked down, and he can tell this is a delicate point in the conversation; he doesn’t want to upset her. But, if he’s going to go; and if, oh if Sparrow comes back for him… it’s no good, he must confide in her.

“It’s because of Jimmy and Danny,” he says. “Your sister ain’t too nice to them.”

“But she likes them very much!”

“A bit _too_ much, sweetheart. Seems she, well, she gives them to her friends, and the boys don’t like it.”

Indilla, far from being horrified, begins to laugh in a rather unladylike manner.

“Why’s that funny?” protests Jack.

“My sisters and I may have no man, and are angry for it; your sons must have many women, and are angry for it. Is that not a funny thing?”

“The grass is always greener,” Jack agrees, but she looks blankly at him, and in light of the countryside around Malabar, he decides not to attempt to elaborate. “Anyway,” he says, “they want to leave, and that’s the very secret thing, you understand? Nat’rally I’m going to go with ‘em; even though it will break my heart, of course, to leave you lovely ladies. And if my Jack comes, when I’m gone, if he finds out where I’ve been all this time and comes here to you, I need you to tell him that I left hale and hearty, and that I’ll be making my way to where he comes from; tell him that in a year or so, I hope to make it to a place he called Tortuga, and I’ll wait for him there, forever if need be. Can you do that, Indilla, for me?”

She’s frowning, and angrily wiping at her eyes, and he feels dreadful to’ve made her cry, but oh, what a weight off him to’ve left a trail behind!

“All right, Jack,” she says, in a small voice. “But I will not tell the others. They will be so sad, and Dakrit and Lalli are so bad at secrets.”

“Thank you, Indilla,” he says, and strokes her hair, and chucks her under the chin, and she snuggles closer, puts her head on his shoulder, and says, a little more determined this time, “So now tell me of Jacksparrow’s love, and why you will sail away to the end of the world to find him.”

Jack smiles, and slides his arm under her so that he can pull her close, strange little being; she feels so birdlike, so insubstantial under all her whispery dresses, and he has a sudden flash of how odd it would be to fuck a little creature like this again, instead of wrestling with a strong lithe pirate of a man; he tries to imagine Indilla braced above him, teeth bared and spine arched and eyes flashing, and fails utterly.

“Jack Sparrow’s love,” he whispers to her, “is the most fiery, and certain, and monstrously demanding love there is; and I would, I will, sail to the end of the world and back again if need be, to find it again.”

“Tell me,” she whispers back, her eyes closed, biting her thumb, “tell me what you do.”

“I… we… well,” says Jack, wondering where to start, and whether this is really in his job description. “Well, I kiss him. I do very much like to kiss him.”

“Like… this?” says Indilla, and she reaches up and kisses Jack, sweet and soft and plumply rich. It’s a lovely kiss, really, but… “No,” says Jack, when he gets his mouth back, “not quite like that.”

“How? Show me, Jack. Pretend I am he. Show me!” she demands, and she’s pushing a leg between his, and feeling very warm in his arms, and this is all dreadfully wrong, but is there anything in the world that Jack wants to do more than to kiss Jack Sparrow right now? And isn’t a pretend Sparrow better than no Sparrow at all?

So he bears down upon her, and kisses her, hard and sure; pushes his tongue between her lips and tastes the milky sweetness of her; and she sucks in a deep breath, and her breasts push up against him, and she opens her mouth to him and kisses him back with glee, her soft hands firm on his scarry back; Jack closes his eyes and tries hard, so hard to pretend, to imagine muscle beneath him and salt and sweat and gold in place of cream and jasmine, but it’s no good. No good at all. There is no leap in his blood; no sparking in his heart; no fire in his gut.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let her know that; and he tears himself away from her and shakes his head, and declares, “Indilla, you’re wicked; you shouldn’t tempt me this way, and you know it. The Queen would have me killed! And I don’t even want to _think_ of what Jack Sparrow would do.” He grins wide at her, and pinches her on the bottom, through all those layers, and she squeaks and grins back.

“No more showing,” he says, reprovingly. “But I don’t mind telling.”

“Oh, Jack,” she says, sighing, and then snuggles in closer still. “Tell me, then.”

“I shall. Shh, close your eyes then, and listen, and I’ll tell you of how it was when Jack Sparrow and I fought ‘longside one another, and oh, Indilla, how that stirs the blood… and after, when we’d vanquished our foes, Jack came to me, down in the dark of the ship; so dark there, I could barely see him, and yet I’d no need, for I can see him now, in my mind’s eye, just as I could then…”

“Tell me…” she whispers, when he trails off; and he heaves a great sighing breath. Closes his eyes, too, and there he sees Jack Sparrow, standing over him in the dim hold, nothing but a sweet collection of shadow and glint and breath and sweat. “He’s… he’s all darkness and bone, Indy, and muscle; and back then, oh then it was all unmarked skin and sweet perfection, and he ain’t that now, but he’s all the more for it. He’s scars, just as I; there, on his thigh, and his arm, and bullet holes all dark from ash-packing—what? Oh, never mind, just round scars, is all—and pictures upon him, tattoos. Well, here on his arm f’r example; he has a bird, a Sparrow, aye, he’s named for a bird that we have at home, where we’re from; and ‘neath the bird is his name.”

Indilla wriggles against him, and says, coyly, “Did he wear his name on his arm when you first met him? Or is it a new mark, like the others?”

“Oh, it ain’t new,” says Jack. “All faded blue, it is. But no, he didn’t have it, when I first met him. Had hardly a thing, then; only half a mermaid on his arm, but he’d decided the fellow doing it was no good, and bade him stop. Gibbs has redone it, ‘tis far better now, I—”

“So,” Indilla interrupts him, “he wears _your_ name on his arm.”

Jack smiles at the thought, but says, “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“I say it is so,” says Indilla, imperiously.

“Then it’s so, milady,” agrees Jack. How could a man argue with such a delicious conceit?

“Tell me more.”

“As you wish.” And he tells her, murmuring on deep into the night, into the quiet left after the rains.

*

The woman stretches and smiles a crocodile smile, and then kicks Danny in the shin and says something in Malabari; they may not speak the language very well yet, but the boys know what that one means. It was one of the first phrases they checked with Darius, in the daily lessons which the Queen has insisted upon. It was the first time they made him laugh, but when they found out what it meant, they didn’t like him any better for it.

“Come on, Jimmy; time to go,” he says, and sits up, reaching for his clothes and hearing his brother, on the other side of the bed, doing the same. He sits, just for a moment, with his head in his hands; that’s their last assignation of the day. Kottakkal will be expecting them in her hall, for the evening’s entertainment. And then, doubtless, in her chambers, for the night’s.

A heavy hand upon his shoulder; he looks up, and Jimmy looks like shite, he really does. Eyes dark with fatigue, mouth set in a hard line. Though, in other ways, he’s seldom looked finer; Kottakkal keeps them in fine embroidered silks and cottons, always in bright creams and whites and golds, emphasising their foreign colours, marking them out. She sends girls to bathe them every morning, to wash their hair and comb it out straight and pale, to wash away the dirt and sweat and stains of their night’s work. Sweet girls, lithe and obedient and willing; but Danny doesn’t want to look at another girl, ever again. They are something different to him, now; something demanding, and cold, and unfathomable. Unfillable, unfulfillable.

“Let’s go, Dan,” says Jimmy, and they turn and bow to the woman in the bed, who doesn’t open her eyes.

Out along the passageway, and past Gabriel’s garden; Danny ducks in, and his brother follows him. They sit beside the mossy waterfall, where it’s hard to be overheard, if you talk low, and in English besides.

“Did you get to Dad?”

“Aye, found his window; would you believe he had one of the Sisters in there with him?”

“You’re joking!” Danny’s appalled.

“No joke! But ah, ‘twas funny; you should’ve seen his face, I swear. ‘Don’t you tell Jack,’ he goes.”

“Can’t see a chance for that any time soon.”

“’S’what I told ‘im, though he din’t like it. But he’ll be ready, he says.”

“Good.”

“I cannot fookin’ wait,” says Jimmy, fervently, “To be away from this madhouse.”

They sit silent for a moment, savouring this thought.

“D’ye think… we will find ‘em, again?” says Danny eventually, staring unfocussed at the waterfall. He talks of finding all of them; but he knows, and Jimmy knows, that he means really only one of them. Their one; their Will. Will, whose memory-self, lithe and strong and laughing and gasping, wide-eyed and sweating and demanding and biting, gets them through their endless, loveless days and nights in the palace.

“If Dad’s got anything to do with it, we will.”

“But what’s the point of finding them, eh… they didn’t come for us, did they? Jack fookin’ Sparrow’d rather have his ship.”

A heavier silence, this time.

“We should’ve told him,” says Danny, “what he was to us.”

“Why? Don’t look like we were anything much to him.”

“D’ye think that? Truly?”

Jimmy gives his brother a hard look. “I have to think it,” he says, and stands. “Come on, or she’ll send out for us.”

“Aye,” says Danny, and stands. He pauses at the waterfall, to splash cold water on his face, and wash his hands that smell still of strange women. Kottakkal doesn’t like that, and lets it be known. Called her bloody interpreter in one night, though they were in the midst of things, and how unnatural was that? The poxy Arab standing beside the bed, eyes trained firmly on the ceiling, telling them not to stop, translating her tirade against unclean foreigners, interspersed with her bloody instructions and demands. Jesus Christ. He shakes his head to rid himself of that memory, and strides from the garden, following Jimmy along the passageway, which turns a corner, and there he walks abruptly into the back of his brother, who is standing stock still and peering out across the sunset-gold harbour.

“What? Is it—”

“No,” says Jimmy, and he’s grinning in a way that Danny hasn’t seen him grin for weeks. “Better than that, mate. Look!”


	12. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Twelve

  


Kottakkal’s great hall is buzzing with activity, slaves and courtiers and soldiers everywhere, and Jimmy and Danny have to push their way through the crowd. Sconces on the walls and pillars are being filled with brightly burning candles, scented and smoky, keeping the night’s insects at bay; an orchestra is setting itself up at one end of the hall, and long low tables are being set with vibrant flowers for some feast. Kottakkal can be seen at the far window, huddled with her ladies, laughing as they repaint her markings, then shrugging them away and running impatiently to the archways and peering down, excited as a girl.

The boys are not sure whether all this Royal Enthusiasm bodes well, or badly, for themselves.

“There’s Darius,” says Jimmy, “he’ll know what’s up... oi, Darius! Here, mate! We saw the _Minerva_ , in port; what’s happening, d’you know who’s here? They’re our friends, you know; our Cabal, as was.”

“The Queen’s sons are returning, triumphant,” Darius tells them.

“Triumphant?” says Danny, under his breath. “What’ve they managed to do, fasten their own fookin’ breeches?” and Jimmy snorts with stifled laughter.

“Her Majesty prepares now for their arrival; she wishes to see you, beforehand. Come, come with me now.”

The boys exchange a rather nervous glance at the news of this summons. That only means one thing to them, at the moment.

“Ah, Jaysus, I can’t, I just can’t,” moans Jimmy, and his brother throws an arm ‘round his shoulders. “She won’t want us now, mate,” he says, reassuringly. “She’s prob’ly just after a bit of a gloat, eh?”

They bow before the Queen, who gives them a dazzling smile. Happiness suits her, thinks Danny; ‘tis a great pity she’s so bloody hard to please in the general run of things. Her skirts tonight are brilliant scarlet, embroidered with tiny golden birds, and she wears hundreds of thin gold bracelets up her wrists and arms, and the same on her ankles, tinkling and sparkling with every move she makes.

She greets them, and they know enough Malabari now to answer her; then she rattles off into some long story, and Darius takes over.

“Her Majesty advises you that you have some special guests this evening. Your friends Dappa, Moseh de la Cruz, and Gabriel Goto will be accompanying the princes to the palace for the celebration of their return.”

“How… nice,” says Jimmy, and they both fight to keep stoic and disinterested looks upon their faces, though inside they’re crowing and sparking with glee; surely, a chance to escape, if ever there was one!

Kottakkal clicks her fingers, and two heavily armed Nayars come up behind her, staring blankly at the boys.

“Her Majesty would like to introduce you to the gentlemen whose task it will be to kill you, should you put a single toe out of line between now, and the time when your friends depart.”

Well, that’s just bloody lovely, that is.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, gents,” says Danny, holding out a hand politely, and Jimmy shakes and reddens in silent laughter. This does not go unnoticed by the Queen, who snaps out some further command: “You are to let your friends know,” explains Darius, “how happy you are, here in Her Majesty’s gracious care, and how very well she has treated you.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Danny, through gritted teeth.

“And, if asked, you will explain also how happy your father is in his new role.”

“What else could he possibly be, indeed,” Jimmy concurs.

Behind them, the orchestra starts up its usual discordant sawing, and there’s some flurry of activity on the steps leading to the hall’s great doorway. Kottakkal turns her back on them without another word, and climbs up to the dais; Jimmy and Danny take their usual place at the table just below the Queen’s, beside the great open arch of the window.

“Fook the Nayars,” Jimmy whispers, “We’re getting’ out on that ship.”

“Jaysus, what wouldn’t you give to have our swords back, eh?”

“Nah, Danny; ‘tis a situation calling for _stealth_ , this one.”

“You’re bad as Dad,” Danny grumbles, and then, “Ah, Jimmy, here they are! Jaysus, ain’t that a sight for—" And then, open-mouthed, he stops.

“Oh my fookin’ Christ,” whispers Jimmy.

The pair of them muster all their self-control, and smile at their friends as they enter the hall behind the princes, and walk its length, and come to stand before the dais, right in front of Jimmy and Danny’s table. Jimmy and Danny are pinching one another, surreptitiously, but hard; they have to, to keep control.

The princes kneel and kowtow to their mother, as do their companions, though they throw sideways smiles at the Shaftoes as they do it. The Queen bids them stand, and comes to take her sons’ hands, and to press them to her bosom. (There are tears in her eyes; you can say a lot of things about Kottakkal, but you can’t call her an undevoted mother.) After a few minutes’ low conversation with her sons, she turns to the rest of the party, and speaks. Dappa answers her, in Malabari.

Jimmy turns to Darius, pulls him over; “What are they saying?”

Darius blinks his slow, lizardy blink, and says, “The former linguist greets Her Majesty and thanks her for the inestimable pleasure that her children’s company has brought to the unworthy members of his Enterprise. Her Majesty advises him that since the Infidel Cabal have returned her sons in apparent health, and possibly even handsomer than when they departed, she will not have them killed today, nor returned into slavery. And she wants to know who those women are.”

With this last, he gives Jimmy and Danny a particularly searching look; and they look back, all blank and blue-eyed innocence. “Why,” says Jimmy, “I’m sure Dappa’s about to introduce ‘em, any moment now.”

Moseh has stepped forward, and is bowing again to the Queen. He gestures to the two slight figures behind them, swathed in dark silks, and the women abase themselves before Her Majesty, though it’s difficult for one of them, since she’s rather heavily pregnant. Dappa’s speaking again; without being asked, Darius murmurs, “That ex-slave has taken a wife, who is, in the pathetic manner of infidel women, afraid to be parted from her husband as she approaches her time; but de la Cruz could not bear to stay aboard his ship, and lose this chance to meet with Her Majesty once more. He has therefore submitted to the entreaties of his woman, and permitted her to follow him, and he begs that Her Majesty will take pity on him, and on his woman, and her attendant, for such a loathsome presumption.”

Kottakkal says something sharp, and Dappa says, quickly, “Get up.” The two women stand, and Kottakkal peers at them for a moment before losing interest, waving a bored hand at them, and engaging Dappa in further conversation. The boys cannot help but notice that her hand has gone straight to Dappa’s broad chest, and ain’t that a wonderful thing to see. He listens intently, and smiles his bright white smile, and says to his companions, “Her Majesty advises that you may go and speak with the Shaftoes, should you care to.”

Danny pinches Jimmy harder, and Jimmy returns the favour. They embrace Moseh and Gabriel, and tell them (with utter sincerity) how good it is to see them again; and then Danny says, “Moseh, ain’t you going to remind us of the name of this lovely lady, who we know very well, of course, I’m just… had a temporary lapse.”

The lady in question smirks, and steps forward; tucks a stray strand of hair behind Danny’s ear, and says, sweetly, “I’m so glad you’re well, boys, it’s such an unexpected pleasure to see you again. And don’t stand on ceremony; you just call me Jane, like always.” She bats her great eyelashes and smiles a gentle, close-mouthed smile.

“You’re looking well, too,” says Danny; and Jimmy says, “You’re looking unbelievable, in fact.”

“Oh, believe it, lads; it took my Maria here _days_ to get me looking this pretty. Didn’t it, eh?”

“ _Days_ ,” says Maria, throwing her mistress a rather unsubmissive glare.

“Well, it worked,” Danny has to admit. “You’re looking lovely, so you are.” And it’s no exaggeration; Moseh’s wife has the silkiest black hair, falling in waves half over her face, and great almond eyes, and a plump red kiss of a mouth, and such smooth bronzed skin; though not much of that is visible, under the myriad layers of silk, and scarves, and the wide embroidered ribbon about her neck.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure; but more importantly, where’s your father?” says Jane, and there’s no hiding the anxiety behind that question. “I don’t see him here.”

Danny looks at Jimmy, and they’re both bubbling with silent laughter. “Who’s going to tell hi—her, then?” says Danny, and Jimmy says, “Go on, so.”

“Fortuitously,” says Danny, “He’s locked up in the women’s wing, with the Queen’s six sisters. Having a lovely time in there, he is. They’re mad for him.”

Jane’s eyebrow shoots up, and her nostrils flare in a rather unfeminine manner. “Why,” she manages, “d’you consider this _fortuitous_ , Mr Shaftoe?”

Moseh interrupts, with a smooth, “I’m sure there’s no need for concern, and neither for such formality, Jane; _Danny_ was perhaps suggesting that, luckily for Jack, you might be permitted to visit him.”

“How wise you are, husband,” says Jane, and she smiles up at Moseh. “And how lucky it is, indeed. There, they don’t call me ‘Lucky Jane de la Cruz’ for nothing, do they?”

“They don’t call you fookin’ ‘Mad Jane de la Cruz’ for nothing, neither,” mutters Jimmy.

*

Jack’s always loved a bit of dressing up, that’s undeniable, but oh, this one’s tortuous. The ridiculous false breasts and belly are tugging horridly at his spine, but he can forgive them for it, considering the weight of steel they contain. And the dress is a piece of wild overdone frippery, but he had a lot of tattoos to cover up, he really did; Ana had been so dismayed, when she first put the dress on him. “Ach, Jack, those scars! No, we need another underdress, to cover those. And what am I supposed to do about your throat, and that Adam’s apple? And when, _when_ was the last time you cleaned under your nails?

All of that’s annoying, but the absolute pinnacle of irritation has been the hours, and hours, and fucking _hours_ that he’s spent with that woman tugging and pulling and cursing and swearing at his hair, bone comb in one hand and a bottle of oil in the other. After an hour she declared it an impossible task; he mocked her as no sort of a woman, and she set her jaw and tugged harder, with no pretence of being gentle, for the next three days. _Handfuls_ of it came out, though she swore that was just old dead hair all matted up. And then she washed it, and washed it, and washed it again; and, last night, wet it and braided it, and sent him to sleep on it; and today, he looks…

Aye, feminine in the extreme. And unnaturally clean. And, apparently (if the Shaftoe boys are any sort of judge, and he thinks they might be) dead pretty.

He’s kept the beard braids, in his sea chest. One day, he’ll grow the blasted things back.

Meanwhile, unarmed (to all practical purposes) and in this ludicrous getup, he’s walked back into the lioness’s cage, and _that_ was a seriously bowel-loosening moment. He didn’t, really, think that she’d spot him; she barely gave him more than a disdainful glance when they met, she was so busy leering at Jimmy and Danny. But he’s a lot less certain of her sons’ abilities to keep their damn mouths shut, despite some very long and rum-soaked discussions about the joy of occasionally doing the right thing and the importance of always knowing several secrets that one’s parent didn’t.

Still, Jack’s never known a seventeen-year-old who wouldn’t jump at the chance to keep something vital from his mama, not in his part of the world, and apparently the rule holds just as true in the Orient.

Jimmy and Danny are doing, really, remarkably well; they certainly have that Shaftoe poker-face thing off pat.

“How is… _everybody_?” asks Jimmy, with absolute clarity of meaning.

“ _Everybody_ ,” says Jack, “is doing just fine, and sends their very warmest. In fact _everybody_ wanted me to tell you how sorry they were that they weren’t able to be here in person.”

“We’ve missed everybody more than you can imagine,” says Danny, vehemently.

“Aye, I mean yes, everybody’s missed one another. Absolutely,” says Jack. “Lots. Vast amounts.” And suddenly, though he knows he’s supposed, according to the Plan (such as it is) to wait until later in the evening for this, he can’t hang on for one more moment; because oh, Lord, ‘vast amounts’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, truly it doesn’t. Not now that he knows all that he knows; not now that, by some delicious quirk of fate, he is standing here dressed as a woman, and Jack Shaftoe is confined to the women’s wing.

Every now and then, it really does seem as though God had forgiven Jack for even his more memorable and creative pieces of bad behaviour.

So, with Jack Shaftoe very much in mind, he suddenly gives a little gasp, and clutches at his heavy belly with one hand, and Moseh with the other; and his ‘husband’ stares at him.

“Jane,” says Moseh, “Are you all right, my love? Surely you’re fine for a little while yet, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” says Jack, with a piteous look. “It doesn’t half hurt, you know, carrying this lot around. I think I should rest somewhere, really I do.” And he makes a muffled squeak, and buries his face in Moseh’s shoulder.

“Would you like us to find you somewhere quiet?” says Danny. “Somewhere for you and your… servant girl?” It’s awfully hard not to smirk at Ana’s clenched jaw, when he says that.

“Oh, my, how I’d appreciate that,” says Jack, with a wan smile.

“Well,” says Jimmy, “we can take you to the guest wing, if you like.” He glances at Danny, and a question passes between them, but Jack can see that neither of them knows the answer to it, whatever it is.

“I’ll need permission from Her Majesty,” says Danny, and he beckons Darius with him, and talks to the Queen in a quick low voice. Kottakkal glances at Jack, disinterested, and waves a hand. He considers himself quite thoroughly dismissed.

“Come on, then,” says Danny, “we’ve permission to take you to rest, long as we come straight back again.” He and Jimmy offer an arm apiece to Jack and Ana, and escort them out of the hall. Darius, silent and diligent, follows them; as soon as they’re outside, Danny stops, and turns to the interpreter.

“We don’t need you, mate, go on back,” he says brusquely, and Jack’s grateful for it. He doesn’t like the intensity of the glances Darius is giving him. He’s not stupid, that one.

“Oh, I think you do need me,” says Darius. He stares openly at Jack, and Jack snarls a little, which in retrospect probably isn’t a good look when one is trying to be a pregnant woman. Darius is making him more than nervous, now.

“No we bloody don’t,” Danny argues, his jaw tightening, and clearly having the same thoughts as Jack; “We’re just takin’ em to the guest wing.”

But Darius, sidling into the shadows, reaches into his voluminous robe, and pulls out a heavy gold seal.

“Wouldn’t you rather,” he suggests, “take Captain Sparrow straight to your father?”

Jack’s heart stops, and in seconds, Danny’s got the man pinned against the wall, an arm across his throat. “You say one fookin’ word,” Danny whispers, “an’ I swear you’re a dead man.”

Darius just shakes his head, and looks at Jack; and Jack says, “Danny, let him go. Let him go!”

Danny releases him, slowly, and Darius takes a deep breath. To Danny and Jimmy he says, “Perhaps you forget that I know what it is, to be held here against one’s will, gentlemen. Though I am not so lucky as to have friends who know where I am, and are willing to risk themselves to help me.”

“But… you would risk helping us?” says Jack, softly.

“I would. I can write the Queen’s instructions, and seal them with her seal; I can get you to Jack Shaftoe. Come, quickly, to the library, and I shall do it for you.”

“You’re on,” says Jack. “And we owe you, mate.”

They hurry along corridors and pathways, Jack attempting to walk like some sort of a lady despite his desperation. He’s so close now, so close to Jack Shaftoe, and it’s making the blood rush hot and heavy all through him. Seeing the boys—so similar to his Jack as he was, way back when—is making it worse and worse. The closer he gets, the more nervous it makes him; what if something should go wrong, now? He could not bear it.

“What’s the plan?” mutters Danny, beside him. “And your timing’s a fine thing; two more days, and we’d’ve been gone from here. You took your fookin’ time, din’t you?”

“Excuse me!” hisses Jack. “We’ve sailed to bloody Queena-Kootah and back! Near killed ourselves doing it, an’ all! Never slacked for one minute, sailed through storms, tore a mainsail and two topgallants to shreds! My _Pearl_ ’s suffered for you, you bloody ingrate!”

Danny humphs, though surely he can appreciate what effort that’s taken. “But, the plan…?”

“Well,” says Jack, though the 'plan' is a little vague at this point, “we need to get out of here, don’t we. And I’ve a bellyful of armaments, you’ll be pleased to know; and Will and Gibbsy are waiting up the river, to take us to _Minerva_ ; and the _Pearl_ ’s back behind Cape Comorin, out of Her Majesty’s way.”

“But, when they see we’ve gone, they’ll go straight to _Minerva_ , won’t they?”

“It was discussed as a possibility,” admits Jack.

“And…?”

“Daniel Shaftoe, I thought your family were comfortable with the idea of _improvisation_?”

“Oh,” says Danny, not particularly impressed with this obvious lack of Contingency Planning.

“Well, it’s working so far, ain’t it?” says Jack, nodding t’ward Darius, and Danny’s forced to agree.

They reach the library, and Darius motions to them to wait outside while he ducks in to forge the Queen’s instructions; and outside, in the cool evening, Jack Sparrow’s hard put not to bounce with glee, at the thought of what the coming hour will bring him.


	13. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Thirteen

  


Even from this quiet and forgotten wing of the palace, Jack can tell that something’s different this evening. Something’s happening. For starters, there’s the running footsteps, the occasional panicked shrieks, and the (eventual) mouth-watering aromas drifting up from the palace kitchens, not too far away.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” he asks Lalli, the youngest princess, as she proffers more of the milky sweetmeats with which they finish each supper, and he bites at her fingertips, making her blush and laugh. Indilla tells her sister what Jack has asked, and lets Lalli answer with a shake of her head.

“We do not know what is happening,” says Indilla, pouting a little. “We are of no consequence, Jack. You must know this, now.”

“I sh’ll go and ask the guards, eh?” suggests Jack, enervated by yet another day of complete indolence, and a little perturbed by all the activity; tomorrow night is the night that he and the boys have selected to make their gaol-break, and an interruption to the smooth running of the palace could be a good diversion, or it could make the whole thing completely impossible. He jumps to his feet, brushing crumbs from his vest (a gift from Princess Kadima, whose embroidery is quite exquisite; the vest is creamy silk, covered in pale green and blue vines, scattered with great scarlet blooms. Jack has never, never owned a garment to match it). The princesses exclaim in surprise at his sudden motion, and Indilla explains what Jack is going to do. He sets off down the tiled corridor, a twittering tail of dark-skinned beauties behind him.

At the single door, he raps impatiently, and hard. He did this, a _lot_ , when he first arrived, and usually with remarkably little success; but some of the guards have got used to him by now, and put up with his little ways.

Suraj arrives after a few minutes, and opens the little eye-level window. Jack starts talking, and Indilla translates for him.

“He does not know what is happening,” reports Indilla. “He has been here, on duty, for ten hours; and it has been a long hot day, and not one thing of interest has occurred; but he would bet his firstborn child that none of the sweet smells that he can smell are destined for his lowly belly.”

“But _something’s_ going on, ain’t it?” insists Jack, listening to far-off cries and the clang of dropped pots.

“We do not know,” says Indilla, totally losing interest. “Come, Jack; come and play backgammon with us. And you can choose the prize, or the losing-prize, what is that called?”

“Forfeit,” says Jack absently; and part of him is faintly astonished that he has become so very quickly bored with being surrounded by beautiful half-naked women who giggle and laugh and will compete so delightfully with one another for his attention.

“Yes!” cries Indilla, and she claps her hands; “A forfeit, Jack, the loser shall pay a forfeit!”

Jack thinks he’s already paid all the bloody forfeits there are to pay. But he smiles, and follows them back to their rooms.

*

They’re still there, several hours later, when darkness has descended and servant girls have come to light the lamps. The game of backgammon turned into three, then five, then seven; Jack’s ready to scream, and suspects he may be paying a forfeit of his sanity. But suddenly there comes a sound, down at the door; voices, and the key in the lock.

“What’s that?” says Jack, and he knocks over the backgammon board in his haste for distraction, earning cries and a scolding for it, but not listening to either. Someone’s coming in the front door. Not a servant, through the cellars; a visitor, being admitted. This has never happened, not in all the long weeks he’s been here. The Princesses, behind him, are hanging back, nervous.

The door is open; and surely that’s the boys he can see, out in the torchlit cloister?

“Jimmy? Danny?” he calls, striding faster down the long corridor. “What’re you doing here?”

“Aye, it’s us, Dad,” says Jimmy, as Jack reaches the doorway, and has his way barred by a pike.

The boys are finely dressed, and look well enough, apart from the rather evil smirks on their faces; Darius stands beside them, and Jack can make out in the half-darkness two other figures, women, standing close behind the boys.

“The _Minerva_ ’s here,” says Danny, and he’s holding Jack’s gaze firmly, as if he’s telling him something important. “And Dappa, and Gabriel, and Moseh have brought the Princes back to the palace.”

“Well, that’s… good,” says Jack, and it is, or it would be if he could actually get to see his friends.

“And,” Jimmy carries on where his brother left off, “this might be a bit _surprising_ , Dad, so try not to be too, er _surprised_ an’ all, but Moseh brought his _wife_ with him; of course you remember her, _Jane_ ; and she ain’t feelin’ too good, so we brought her up here for a _rest_.”

Jack stares blankly at his son, but has the nous not to ask what the fuck he’s talking about.

“So anyway,” says Danny, “we have to go back to the banquet hall, now, but we’ll be back later, to collect the ladies so that they can _go home_.” And he can no longer restrain the grin that’s been threatening to burst out on his face. “There you go, ladies,” he says, “In you go, quick as you can, eh?”

“What—” says Jack, and then he sees.

The moment seems endless, the rest of the world suddenly retreating at high speed, like water rushing down a drain; there’s only him, and a flushing heat all through his body, and Jack Sparrow’s eyes, full of delight and wickedness and joy. Jack’s heart contracts hard, and then skips and jumps in a way that can’t be healthy, and as for breathing, well, his lungs appear to’ve given up on that idea altogether. He just stares, and stares, and grins like an imbecile, and gets nothing but the same in return.

It’s him. It’s him. Under all that crap, and lacking quite a few previously distinguishing features, but it’s him. He’s… oh, Christ, he’s here, and burningly beautiful, and mad as a fucking snake, and _here_.

“You should probably take the ladies in, now,” says Jimmy loudly, and it breaks into Jack’s reverie. He offers his arm, and Jane takes it.

“Please,” says Jack, “come inside, and we’ll… make you more comfortable.”

“I’m sure you will,” says Jane, flicking a glance up at him, and he thinks he might explode on the spot.

“When will you be back, boys?” he asks, struggling to sound sentient.

“When the Queen decides to retire, I suppose,” says Danny. “Just… have the ladies ready, eh?”

“Certainly. Have fun, now, and give my very warmest regards to our friends. Bye then,” says Jack, and he ushers his guests inside and slams the door shut.

He leans against it, just for a moment, willing this to be real; and then turns, slowly; and it _is_. There stands Jack Sparrow, for all that he’s barely recognisable. Behind him, grinning, an unnaturally sleek AnaMaria; behind her, holding onto one another in a confused huddle, his six Princesses. But none of those other people matter, not a jot; for _Jack Sparrow is here_.

“You came,” he says, his voice rough with love.

“Of course I fucking—I mean, of course I came,” says Sparrow, breaking eye-contact for long enough to throw a quick, inquisitive glance at the Princesses. Of course, he’s still trying to be Jane for them. Jack grins. Oh, they’re going to be so happy at this! He wonders how best to break it to them; and decides to go with the direct approach. He puts a hand out to Sparrow’s hair, all silken waves and not like him at all; and Sparrow bites his lip and closes his eyes at the touch, but does not move; doesn’t know that he’s safe, here.

“Ladies,” he says to the Princesses, in Sabir, “you’ll never guess who this is.”

“It is the wife of your friend Moseh,” says Indilla, who’s rather pleased with herself for overhearing and understanding that piece of English.

“Oh, is it just? Would I do _this_ to the wife of my friend Moseh?” says Jack, and he pushes his hand up under Sparrow’s hair, and pulls him forward till that great, hard round belly hits his, and oh, just slow enough, just hard enough, kisses Sparrow’s mouth (smooth lips with no tickling moustache, oddly foreign and yet blazingly, wonderfully familiar and right; Jack risks the tiniest lick, with the tip of his tongue, but no more); and Sparrow’s head tilts slack and heavy in his hand for just a moment, just a short moment, and then he pulls back, confused by Jack’s kiss and by the sudden shriek of “ _Jacksparrow!_ ” from behind him, and the sound of six bouncing and giggling and clapping Princesses.

“But he is changed!” cries Indilla. “He is—no, Lalli, don’t be silly, he’s not a girl at all!—but he is not as you told us, Jack!”

“He ain’t a lot like I recall him, either,” says Jack.

“What’s happening?” demands Sparrow. “What are you saying, Jack? They know it’s me? Do we need to get out of here?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Jack assures him. “This lot are great admirers of yours, mate.”

“Really?” says Sparrow, with an immodest grin. “Why, how could that be?”

“Can’t imagine; p’rhaps they’ve been exposed to someone who quite likes you,” Jack says, in a wondrous piece of understatement.

He tears his eyes away from Sparrow with the greatest of effort, and begins to herd them all back up the corridor, back to the big, high-windowed room where they spend their days. The Princesses are chattering like magpies, and staring at Sparrow and Ana, and he doesn’t blame them for it, not one bit—dear God, he’s never seen the two of them anything like this. Even Ana’s transformed; he’d known she was a pretty thing, under the dirt and the big men’s clothes, but now, in a simple dark cotton dress and with her hair plaited back clean and sweet, and a ribbon about her neck just the same as Jack’s; well, she’s beautiful. Though, sadly for her, entirely eclipsed by her faux-mistress.

“Did we surprise you, then?” queries Sparrow, putting a hand to Jack’s shoulder; and Jack has to stop right there in the middle of the corridor, and kiss him more, just at the sound of his voice; ah, God, all those weeks of waiting and hoping and desperation, and here he is, in Jack’s arms again! It’s too fabulous; Jack’s fizzing with it, dizzy with it, sick with the delight of it, his head swimming. But his beloved’s awfully hard to kiss, with all the armouring disguise he wears. “What the fuck is _this_ for?” Jack demands, tapping on the heavy belly beneath the silks.

“Equipment,” says Sparrow happily, and Jack could kiss him all over again. “Can I take it off, now? Since your charges are all in on our little secret anyhow.” And he gives Jack a faintly disapproving look that manages nothing more than to make Jack want to kiss him even _more_ , if that were possible.

“I tell you, you needn’t worry ‘bout my girls,” says Jack. “They’d do anything for you, mate; not to mention me. And yes, you surely can take it off. In fact…” He leans close, into Sparrow’s warm hair, and yes, there’s still a faint and wonderful smell of Jack Sparrow under there; he breathes it in deep, sucks it down, oh Lord yes. “In fact,” he whispers close, “the sooner you take it _all_ off, the better, Jack, because I’ve got to tell you, having you this close again and yet still clothed is simply insupportable.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr Shaftoe?” says Sparrow mockingly, batting his eyelashes, but Jack can see the flush of colour over his love’s collarbones, and he bends to lick it, but is interrupted by Indilla calling from the doorway, “Come, Jack! Bring Jacksparrow to us!”

“Ten minutes,” he promises Sparrow. “Just charm ‘em for ten minutes, Jack, and then… oh God, then you’re mine, and no-one else’s.”

“I’ll try,” says Sparrow with a grin, “but ten minutes of Me is seldom sufficient, you know.”

“Well, it’s all they’re getting,” growls Jack, and he’d be awfully tempted to add _or they’ll have to watch me ravish you right there on the damn cushions_ , if only he didn’t think that that idea would be greeted with cries of delight.

*

He’s surrounded by a complicated three-way babble of Malabari, Sabir and English, and these women surely aren’t shy; he’s stroked, and poked, and sometimes when he’s not looking in the right direction finds himself fleetingly _kissed_ ; it’d be funny, to think of Jack Shaftoe locked up here all the time that Jack was imagining terrible crocodile-infested fates for him, if only it wasn’t so damnably jealousy-inducing.

Shaftoe’s translating, and exclaiming, and laughing, and he’s having just as much trouble as the ladies keeping his hands off Jack. Christ, he looks good, and Jack just stares stupidly for a minute, and really wishes he wasn’t in this ridiculous getup. Shaftoe’s hair is all thick straw and there are tiny, tiny plaits scattered through it, and it’s been pulled back into a queue, with care and a comb, not disinterest and fingers; he’s sure this lot did it to him, for Jack Shaftoe would never bother to do it to himself. It makes Jack even more jealous, makes him miss all the interesting accumulations that Ana pulled and tugged and ripped out of his own hair. Shaftoe’s wearing some fine embroidered vest, and his arms are all muscle and scar, even more so than Jack remembered them; he’s been shaved, close and proper, and that jawline is doing Jack’s head in. To kiss Jack Shaftoe hard and deep, the two of them all smooth-faced, what’ll that be like? Oh, God, he wants to do it, before they get all whiskery again.

The one with the long hair, the one Shaftoe talks to the most, is pushing up Jack’s sleeve now; looking at his tattoo, and babbling at Shaftoe, who’s shaking his head and laughing.

“What’s the problem with my tattoo?” he asks, and Shaftoe flushes, and says, “She thinks it’s my name, not yours. I told her she’s wrong.”

“Is she now?” says Jack, and Shaftoe stares hard at him, and he meets it; not smirking, not teasing. Shaftoe’s eyes blaze bluer, and Jack smiles. It’s half-true, at least as far as he can recall; he’d been a few sheets to the wind when he started that one. Besides, some things simply come true after the fact, don’t they?

“If I’ve something to say to these ladies, can you tell it to ‘em for me, Jack?”

“Depends what you’re going to say,” says Shaftoe, as reflexively unbiddable as ever.

Jack gives him a look that says, _What could I say ‘bout you save things you’d blush to hear?_ “How about this,” he says. “Tell them how much I thank them for taking care of you so very well. And tell them that I’ve never seen you look finer, though truth to tell, Jack Shaftoe, you’ve never looked anything but fine to me.”

“Do I have to sit and listen to this?” mutters AnaMaria. “Ain’t it bad enough to watch the two of you eating each other up with your eyes, but I have to hear it too?”

“Shut up,” says Jack, fondly, too happy to take exception. Shaftoe’s saying something in Sabir, though Jack suspects it’s a severely truncated version of his original statement. “And explain to ‘em, if they’ve not extrapolated as much already—”

“Jack, we’ve got two languages and two not-very-good interpreters to go through here, I don’t think ‘extrapolated’ is going to make it through in one piece,” says Shaftoe. “Can we keep this simple?”

“All right, all right; just tell ‘em, then, that I’m going to take you away, tonight.”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” says Shaftoe, sparky, “that I’m bringing forward my own plans to _leave_ , since you’re here now.” Jack can see that Shaftoe’s not willing to be rescued, like some princess in a cheap romance. Hah! An ironic thought, given their current respective appearances. But anyway, of course he’s not. He’s a fighter, ain’t he? A fighter, and that’s what Jack loves him for.

“Fair enough, tell ‘em that, then,” he says, and as Shaftoe’s talking, he starts shrugging his way out of the ridiculous dress till it falls at his feet, and then scrambles out of the underdress too, and unbuckles the padded felt monstrosity of a belly.

Shaftoe falls silent, and then a cacophany starts up; Jack’s not sure if the shrieks of the women are for the news of Shaftoe’s leaving, or for his own half-naked state. Free of his costume, he wears only thin black knitted drawers, that stretch and cling from his hipbones down below his knees, and it’s not nakedness as _such_ (hello! These women wear nothing but jewellery and skirts!) but it doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, either.

Shaftoe’s staring at him with his mouth open, and possibly drooling a little, which makes Jack utterly happy. He crouches down beside the belly, and winks up at Shaftoe, tucking his ringletted hair behind his ears so’s he can see what he’s doing. Shaftoe licks his lips and crouches down next to him. Their knees touch, and their bare elbows, and Jack shivers as a shockwave of something utterly, deliciously lustful ricochets down his spine. He licks his lips, and turns back to his work.

He unwraps four blades, still warm from lying flat against his torso, each of which ends in a twisted stump; and then four hilts that end the same, and with a click and a snick he connects them, and four short-swords appear. “Will says they’ll survive simple combat,” he tells Shaftoe, “but don’t take on any Janissary blades, eh?”

Shaftoe picks one up, and after a moment’s fiddling has disconnected it again; is looking at the mechanism, in which each section pierces the other, and then twists round strong and safe. “Nice design,” he says. “Have you a plan for leaving here?”

“How could I have a plan? I didn’t even know if I’d find you, let alone where or in what state. We’ll wait till the boys come back, and then… well, then we’ll do whatever you were going to do, tomorrow night, since you were all organised and everything, and, you know; didn’t even really need me to turn up,” Jack says.

“The boys won’t be back for, oh, a couple of hours at least,” says Shaftoe, going straight to the immediate heart of the matter and completely ignoring both the dig and the question of what might happen once the boys do reappear. He’s so very close that Jack can smell him, the Shaftoe-breath and Shaftoe-skin and Shaftoe-sweat under the soap and rosewater; there’s that familiar mischievous smile playing about his mouth, and a flush on his throat, and Jack fights the rush of blood that threatens to embarrass him quite thoroughly, given his very partial state of dress.

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I did come up here _specifically_ for a bit of a lie down.”

“Oh for the love of God,” cries AnaMaria, and the princesses stare at her, wide-eyed: “Will you two just go and do whatever you have to do, and spare us the torture of watching you salivate over one another?”

“Ana, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” says Jack, but Shaftoe is beaming at her, and babbling at his Princess, and she’s giggling so hard she can barely speak to her sisters; and then they’re all chuckling and blushing and squeaking at one another in Malabari and hiding their faces in one another’s necks, and then pushing Shaftoe and himself t’ward the door, and Shaftoe’s still talking Sabir and they’re laughing at him; and then he and Jack Shaftoe are back out in the cool quiet of the tiled corridor, and the door’s slammed in their faces.

“I think,” says Shaftoe, with a perfectly irresistible tremor in his voice, “maybe I should… show you my quarters, eh?”


	14. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Fourteen

  


Charged and slow, heady and delicious, frangipani scented air swirls about them, eddying in the wake of the door’s slamming. It lifts strands of Sparrow’s hair, those long ringletted curls that he’s pushed back off his face, now that he’s no longer trying to hide the square strength of his jaw; and Jack’s frozen, almost, at the unexpectedness of the past half hour, and the dizzy impossibility of standing here with Jack Sparrow, with nowhere to be and nowhere to go except his own rooms, and nothing to do save those things that he’s dreamt and yearned for, all these long weeks. He just stands, and savours it, for a few moments; savours the glow in his blood and the thrum of his skin, savours the sight of Jack Sparrow and the weight of Jack Sparrow’s own gaze upon him.

He looks so different, his love, and so strange; Jack has never seen him thus, his face bare and oddly vulnerable. It makes him look very young, and gives him a sweetness that’s completely at odds with at least half of what Jack knows of him. This narrow, bare-chested body surely cannot house such a pirate’s soul, such unique determination, such wicked passions. And yet; yet, Jack knows it does. He reaches out, willing his hand to steadiness, and twirls a curl about his finger; doesn’t trust himself to touch that skin yet. Sparrow’s tongue darts out, licking at his bottom lip, and Jack’s eyes are drawn, as always, to that mouth; that mouth that closes and then, ah, with such infinite slowness, plump, damp lips part into a smile. Jack lets out a little breath.

He tugs, gently, and leads Jack Sparrow by the hair… along the dim passageway, round a corner and through an arch, and into his room. Closes the heavy teak door behind them, and it’s dark.

“Light a lamp,” says Sparrow, all throaty; “I have to see you, Jack. My Jack.”

Jack pauses, just for a moment, at that. Has to, because the words have drained every piece of control from him, and leave him as nothing but a pulsing mess of want. He swallows, and takes refuge in: “Not sure I want to see _you_ , mate.”

“What ever d’you mean? Am I not to your liking, this way? Was it only my beard that did it for you, eh? Well, you might’ve told me. Still got it, actually, if that helps. Kept it. Couldn’t throw it away.”

Jack wants to laugh, because Sparrow is babbling, and isn’t that just perfect. Jack Shaftoe resorts to insults to deal with his sensory overload. Jack Sparrow resorts to whatever-the-fuck pops out of his mouth. He lights the lamp anyway, and turns to see Sparrow lit flickery by it, leaning against the door, hands behind the small of his back, left foot balanced on the calf of his right leg. Lower lip bitten; sheen of sweat on the upper.

“Thank God you’re out of that dress,” says Jack, staring and stalling for time.

“Really? Time was, Jack, you’d’ve far rather I’d been a girl.”

“Time was.”

“And now?” Sparrow licks his lips. Jack can see the solid swell under those leggings and it sends a warm breeze up his spine. He swallows again. He takes one step, two, three; till he is only inches away. “Had my fill of girls,” he mutters.

“Been surrounded by ‘em, ain’t you? What’ve you been up to, eh?”

“Nothing,” says Jack defensively, but he feels the temperature of his face rise another notch. “What good are they to me?”

“Come, come, Jack; many’s the time I’ve made you spend, without use of any _apparatus_ that your Princesses lack,” murmurs Jack Sparrow, canting his hips forward till his cock brushes gentle against Jack, and making a small breathy sound as it does.

“Firstly,” says Jack, pressing back, “they all lack the essential apparatus, as you put it, which is your good self; no, not _this_ ,” (running a fingernail along Sparrow’s obviously grateful cock) “but _this_ ,” (laying a hand on Sparrow’s chest, above his heart)—a true, and yet disturbingly Romantick confession which Jack immediately mitigates, with: “Besides which, I tried, and it didn’t work.”

“’Tis a good thing I’m not an overly jealous fellow then,” says Sparrow, though the tightening of his jaw might belie the claim.

“Well, you’ve no cause to be,” says Jack, a tad inaccurately. “For when she kissed me, Jack, I’d no thought in my head but how far it was from your kiss. And when she touched me, it wasn’t your hand; and all I could imagine was you, you naked above me and around me, and the flash of your eyes and the scratch of your beard, and I miss that already, no matter how lovely a thing you may be beneath it; but beard or no beard, that matters not at all; it’s _you_ I want, Jack, you and your strength and bite and fire and, oh _Christ_ how I want it!”

And he crushes Jack Sparrow there against the wooden door, falls upon him with a hotly open mouth and greedy tongue. He runs his hands through that too-perfect hair and messes it, ruins it, takes the first steps t’ward rebuilding his love as he exists in Jack’s memory, all tangle and darkness. The kiss is deep and hard and strange for its smooth beauty, but no less effective for that; for this mouth still holds the taste of Jack Sparrow, his gold and savage heat, and here too is the smell of his skin, of his sweat that rises under Jack’s hands. Sparrow’s hands come round and slide rough-palmed up Jack’s back, pulling him close. They kiss as if they’re finally, finally saying hello; finally checking on the presence of the other, the true presence of the thing they’ve missed, the presence of that other half of themselves whose absence has been a gaping, aching hole in these long long weeks of separation.

“Christ, Jack, Christ, I need you so badly, you have to fuck me;” Jack finds himself groaning it, shameless, desperate, certain, and Sparrow undulates under his hands, oh that skin against his chest, the hardness of the thighs against his own. Sparrow winds one flexible leg around Jack’s legs, and Jack’s Remnant is pressing against Sparrow’s balls through their clothing; and then the other leg comes slowly up, and it’s only the fierce pressure of Jack pushing him against the door that’s holding Sparrow up as he writhes and humps against Jack’s half-a-cock, hard as it’s ever been. Jack grunts and pushes both his hands down into Sparrow’s leggings, cupping the tensed muscles of his arse, supporting him, and oh God the flex of those muscles beneath his fingers is unbelievable. He remembers taking girls this way, so long ago, in dirty alleyways and up against cracking plaster walls; his hips push up reflexively, and Sparrow shivers and groans.

It’s delicious, blood-thumpingly good, but they can’t hold this for ever, or at least Jack’s quivering thighs can’t; besides which, Jack is excruciatingly keen for nudity at this point in the proceedings. He leans back to take all Sparrow’s weight, and staggers over to his bed, and the two of them fall upon it, Sparrow beneath Jack and yet still twined all about him like a particularly determined vine. So easy for Jack to thrust and push at him, even as Sparrow’s quick hands pluck Jack’s vest off and begin to roam all over his shoulders, his arms, the scarred skin of his back, and then gorgeously down into Jack’s trousers, sliding hotly over his clenching buttocks.

“Yesss,” hisses Jack, “oh yes, that’s where I want you, want you so badly Jack.”

“So do I,” gasps Sparrow, his eyes wide, his hair a wild halo upon the white linen.

“Do it then, do it, put your fingers in me Jack—”

But Sparrow shakes his head, and says, “No, mate, no, I mean, just as you said; I want _you_ so badly; I want to be fucked by _you_.”

Jack’s taken by a flush of cold, of dismay, of hurt. “Damn you, Jack, you know I—”

A hand flies up to Jack’s mouth to stop his words, and Sparrow’s gabbling at him. “I know you ain’t whole, Jack, but that don’t mean you’re nothing, you’re something, you’re something wonderful, and you’re something that I want, and won’t you give that to me? Please?”

“But,” says Jack, helpless with desire at the thought of the tight dark heat that lies in wait inside Jack Sparrow. He cannot bring himself to say, _But I can’t do to you as you do to me; can’t touch you there, can’t set you alight and shuddering._

“I know,” says Sparrow, frowning and determined, “I know, Jack, but I want it—you can’t, can’t tell me you don’t want it too?”

Jack cannot answer; can only push his trousers down and scramble out of them, can only kneel between Sparrow’s legs and slowly, tortuously, pull those thin leggings over sharp hipbones, over the twitching weight of Sparrow’s cock; Sparrow lifts his hips, and Jack takes a great sigh as he runs his palms over tight velvety muscle, pulling the leggings down and off, dropping them to the floor; and he kneels there, just breathing for a moment, just _looking_ , and this, this, is his Jack Sparrow. Never mind the face, the hair. Never mind the wide embroidered ribbon that still adorns his neck. Below it all is the body he knows, the muscle and bone and scar and gold and ink, purely masculine, purely lovely, purely his. He wraps one hand round Sparrow’s cock, eliciting a sucked-in breath, a tightening of stomach muscles; wraps the other around his own, and it disappears inside his fist, a cruel approximation of what lies spread out before him. And yet… yet, he can feel its width, its solidity; and if the ache inside him, all along the base of his spine, is anything like the need that Sparrow feels; oh, can’t they both have what they want?

“Are you sure?” he asks, even as he pushes at Sparrow’s knee, raising it, asking for access.

“Are you deaf?” And Sparrow wraps his legs around Jack’s waist, locking his ankles and pulling Jack down, down for a kiss, a demand writ clear in tongue and teeth and thumping heart. “Give me those trousers, Jack; I brought…”

Jack snorts with laughter and reaches down for the crumpled garment, squeezing until he feels a small round hardness; extracts, from a tiny pocket, a pewter pillbox.

“What a very well-equipped rescue mission this is,” he notes, and Sparrow just grins at him, and shrugs; lifts his legs higher, and toys with the ring in his nipple, biting his lip, waiting, wanting.

Jack smears his fingers with the grease, bends to bite at the other neglected nipple, and without preamble or hesitation pushes straight in with two long fingers. Sparrow bucks upwards, and gasps with a wonderful, incoherent noise, and cries, “Ja—”

*

He may be all finely dressed and cleanshaven, but it means nothing, nothing; Jack Shaftoe is as wild and savage as ever, as full of flamey lust as Jack recalls him, and the sudden burn of those two wide fingers is shockingly good. And oh Shaftoe knows exactly what he’s about, knows Jack inside and out, and in moments is pushing fiery against that place that makes Jack quake and shiver and dig his nails into Shaftoe’s shoulders.

Was it being dressed as a woman that made him want this so very badly, made him start thinking of how it used to be, before Jack Shaftoe was Half-Cocked, back when they were so very young and being fucked by Shaftoe was like being fucked by bright life itself? Was it, more likely, the realisation that Shaftoe was locked away with these women as a sign of his emasculation; and if Jack hated Kottakkal before (which he did, most surely) he hates her more now, for her ignorance and her cruelty, and even though she’ll never know it, Jack feels some need to prove her wrong. Possibly that’s it… Jack doesn’t really know what it is that’s done this to him, suddenly made him want, so desperately, to feel Shaftoe inside him, but there it is. He hopes ‘gainst hope that it’s not the wrong thing to want, but God dammit! He just… does. Wants it hard, and bad, and Shaftoe’s fingers driving and squirming inside him are leaving him open-mouthed and speechless and kicking at the bedcovers, and Shaftoe’s wildman grin at Jack’s disarray is just the icing on this little cake of his.

Shaftoe brings his other palm to his mouth, and gives it a great, lewd swipe of tongue; rolls his wet palm, open-handed, around the head of Jack’s cock, where the skin is stretched so tight it shines.

“So,” says Shaftoe, growly, “you’re telling me that I can’t have this, how I want it?” He wraps his fingers, one by one, around; slides, tight and wet, down, and crooks his other fingers, which seem to be somewhere up around Jack’s pounding heart at this point. Jack, balanced between these two cunning hands, feels the world tilting about him.

“You can have anything,” he gabbles. “Anything, everything, ah Christ Jack you _know_ I want to be there, deep as I can go and deeper still, but first, now, _please_ Jack; you haven’t, haven’t even tried, not since I found you again—”

“Jack, there ain’t enough _there_ ,” protests Shaftoe again, low; but Jack can see the hunger in him.

“When I fuck you,” Jack growls, “you cry out for more, Jack. _Deeper_ you demand, and _more_ and _harder_ and—”

“That ain’t because you’re not enough,” says Shaftoe, stroking Jack with long sure strokes that send a dazzle through his blood and make him close his eyes, just for a moment, to remember what it was that he was trying to say; it was some cunning argument, he was sure. Oh, yes.

“’Zackly,” he says, his voice thick. “But because _nothing_ is enough; and if nothing is enough, then anything must suffice, eh? And, ah, Jack, I want—I want—” And then he’s tired of arguing the point, and can’t leave it much longer or Jack Shaftoe’s eager hands upon him will drive him too fast to the edge; he scrambles free (though he’s no wish to be free of those hands, none at all) and pushes Shaftoe back against the carven footboard of the bed, half sitting, reaching out for Jack. Jack climbs across Shaftoe’s lap, leaning over his upturned face so they’re hidden by dark curtains of Jack’s corkscrewing curls, and kisses him, sweetly, wetly, hard.

“First time I took you,” he murmurs, “You sat across me, thus; you took me in your hand, like this…” He takes a hold of Shaftoe’s Credential, and wriggles up further; positions himself to feel the press of it there, against him. Shaftoe bites his lip all snarly at the touch of Jack’s arsehole on his poor scarred flesh; but Jack thinks it’s a good snarl, and he doesn’t move away.

“And then you let… me… in…” he says, slowly, and slowly (have to feel each moment, Jack, for there won’t be many) lowers himself, presses down against the upward pressure of Shaftoe’s trembling hips, and grinds his teeth against the burn of it, for it’s been a long time, oh a long time, since he’s permitted this, but _this_ is Jack Shaftoe, thick and solid and pushing fierce against him, into him. And Jack Shaftoe can do anything to him. Anything.

And too soon, too soon, Jack’s down as far as he’ll ever go and Shaftoe up as far as well; but the _rightness_ Jack feels when he looks down at his own cock, lying dark against the line of hair marking the centre of Shaftoe’s flat brown belly, and looks at Shaftoe’s broad hands that grip Jack’s hips with determined possession, and looks at the blood-driven quiver in the gold ring that he threaded through Shaftoe’s nipple with his own hands, and looks at Jack Shaftoe’s glowing eyes, his moist half-open mouth, his flaring nostrils… ah, that _rightness_ , though it will never take the place of Shaftoe’s much-missed and vividly recalled other half, fills a void that lives not in the heart of Jack’s body, but of his soul.

“Jack,” says Shaftoe, voice cracking, and he cants his hips and closes his eyes. “Jack, I want…” And he’s pulling himself more upright, and Jack winds his legs about Shaftoe’s waist, and twists down and closer, then braces himself on Shaftoe’s wide shoulders and lifts up, slow, and then grinds down hard once more, humming as his cock pushes greasily against Shaftoe’s slick-skinned belly. He’s pulled tight, close, by groaning grabbing laughing Jack Shaftoe, whose head’s thrown back, whose strong arms are all but lifting Jack and then jamming him ramming him down again as Shaftoe thrusts up, and ShaftoeShaftoeShaftoe Jack has found him Jack is here with him Jack is all curled round him and his tongue is bitten in Shaftoe’s mouth and his arse is stretched by Shaftoe burn and his cock can’t wait another moment, and Jack’s barely taken a hand to himself, one two three quick strokes and theretheretheretherethere all splattery heat and spilling gaspy pleasure.

*

Jack feels it start deep within Sparrow where he thrusts and writhes on Jack’s lap, feels it finish in a warm liquid pulse over his own chest and belly, hears it in Sparrow’s groaning cry, and as for what he sees, well surely that’s one of the most spectacular visions that life has to bestow; and yet, yet… it doesn’t tip _him_ over the edge, no matter how much he might wish it. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good, oh wonderful, to be inside Jack Sparrow again; it’s just not, given the state of his equipment, entirely… sufficient. Which is utterly tragic and twice as humiliating, and he buries his hot face in Sparrow’s sweaty neck as the last tremors wash through.

“Oh, Jaaa-ack,” comes Sparrow’s voice, low and singsong; and Jack makes himself look up. He’s still hard as rock, still deep inside, and it’s hot and tight and slick and all that it ever was; but he is not all that he was, and it just _doesn’t fucking work_ , and he has to fight down flares of embarrassment and anger and disappointment. He lets panting Jack Sparrow kiss him, lick his way around Jack’s mouth, bite at Jack’s tongue. And then Sparrow freezes for a second.

“What?” says Jack, who’s wondering if it’s acceptable to request Sparrow’s mouth on him at this point, or if that’s a bit of an ask.

“I’m having an _idea_ ,” says Jack Sparrow, and he kisses Jack again, and then levers himself off Jack’s cock, standing above Jack for a moment. Jack grabs Sparrow’s hips to steady him on the bed, and licks at the pearly splashes that coat his abdomen, his softening cock. Hoping to steer this idea in an _oral_ sort of a direction.

But: “Stop it, I need that,” says Sparrow, swatting at him; and then he turns round (Jack groans, and licks at the slick cleft of arse, so pale-gold-perfect, so bloody _edible_ ) and demands, “Sit up on your heels, Jack, kneel there.”

Jack grins and obeys, tucking his feet under him, and Sparrow slides downwards; Jack runs his tongue along the sweat-slicked, scarred bones of that slow-descending spine, remembers cleaning every long lash-wound in the harsh sunshine of Turk’s Island; and then Jack Sparrow’s straddling Jack on his knees, reaching between his own thighs to find Jack again, to run a caressing hand over Jack’s balls and hold his Credential firm for a moment before impaling himself once more, with a wriggle and a twist that curve his gorgeous arse back against Jack and make him gasp at the sweet heat of it.

Jack pushes Sparrow’s hair over one shoulder, so that he can bite and suckle at the back of his neck, where strands of hair stick wetly; Sparrow shivers under his tongue, and mutters, “I know you think you can’t, Jack, but I tell you, tonight you’re spending inside me just as you always did.”

Jack would argue it, but how can he when Jack Sparrow is there upon him, and he can wrap his arms around that narrow, beloved form and anchor it, anchor them, as he fucks… and then Sparrow renders argument all the more irrelevant, by reaching back between his legs again, making Jack part his knees, reaching back and sliding a greased hand over the root of Jack’s cock, where it’s disappearing into his own body; bracing himself left-handed on Jack’s knee and reachingleaningcurving further, and Jack tilts his hips to help, and it’s easy in the end, and he groans in greedy delight as Sparrow slips a finger inside him. Fucking and fucked both in a glorious overload. “More,” he demands, and gets it with a laugh, and he bites at the scarred skin of Sparrow’s back, muscles moving beneath his lips, against his smooth-shaven face. He shudders and bites and thrusts as Sparrow finds his target and sweetness jangles up his spine. “More,” he says again, and _more more more_ , a simple heartfelt plea as he curls over Jack Sparrow, hands digging and clutching and adoring, and he slides two fingers into Sparrow’s mouth to be sucked and bitten, wanting to climb inside the man any way he can, and Sparrow squeezes tight and sure about his prick, oh that muscle that muscle; and Sparrow’s fingers won’t let the light stop shivering up inside him, hotter and brighter and sweeter until it’s true, he knows: he will spend this way just as he always did and he bites and wails and spills with a great fierce thrust that makes Jack Sparrow groan. Over and over it shudders and ripples through him. Over and over.

“Jack,” he breathes. “Jack.” He leans weakened against Sparrow’s sweat-streaked back. Shh. Breathing. Shh.

They disentangle, and fall upon the bed, and lazily tangle themselves up all over again, waiting for their hearts to find their slow calm rhythm again. Jack runs an indolent hand up Sparrow’s chest.

“Where would you’ve gone?” says Sparrow suddenly, and Jack struggles for a moment to focus his mind.

“Where?” Sparrow insists. “If I’d not come for another two days, and you had left; where would you’ve gone, Jack?”

“Anywhere I had to,” says Jack.

“Had to?”

Jack looks at him, at the pulse in his neck beneath that ribbon, at the sheen of sweat across his cheekbones, at the kiss-reddened swell of his lip, and grins his fierce sure grin.

“Anywhere I had to,” he says, “till I found you.”


	15. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Fifteen

  


Much as he would like to close his eyes, and drift away into the delirium-inducing heat and smell and presence of Jack Shaftoe, he can’t, of course; for, though they’ve pretended elsewise for the past hour, the fact is that they are in the heart of enemy territory, and really should be addressing some fairly important matters, viz., getting the hell out of there in one piece. So he rolls over and treats himself to one last, delicious, re-invigorating kiss of Shaftoe’s still-reddened mouth (oh, the taste of him, and the breathtaking arch of his strong sure body under Jack’s, and the humming sound that he can’t hold back—ahh, kissing Jack Shaftoe once will never be enough, and will _always_ lead Jack to want other things, and he has to push himself, to force himself, away). He swings his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and slapping Shaftoe’s thigh.

“Come, Jack, come; enough self-indulgence, we’ve an escape to mastermind, and the boys’ll be back soon, we need to—mmmph!” The practicality of his intention is not at all appreciated by Shaftoe, who hooks an arm about Jack’s neck and drags him down again, pulling Jack to lie, oh, glory, all atop the long hard warmth of him. Jack struggles and resists, just a little, for the fun of it, and Shaftoe grins, and rolls him over, and bears down upon him.

“Never thought,” says Shaftoe, “that I’d hear _you_ , Jack Sparrow, say the words ‘enough self-indulgence’. Doesn’t sit right, that.”

Jack smirks delightedly, and wriggles, and hooks his foot round Shaftoe’s leg, running it up and down. “If it were up to _me_ ,” he confirms, “I’d lie about _indulging_ with you all day and night, Jack; and as soon as we’re back where my word is more or less law I most certainly _shall_ ; but, until then, I shall have to insist that you keep your hands, not to mention other extremities, to yourself, and concentrate on practical matters.”

“This is practical,” says Shaftoe, kissing Jack at a particularly sensitive spot just in front of his ear. Ooh, that muscular tongue, and the roaring breath, it sends the most gorgeous shiver up Jack’s spine.

But! “No it isn’t,” insists Jack.

“Well, it certainly ain’t _theoretical_ ,” mutters Shaftoe into his ear, biting just a little.

Jack laughs, and says, “I’ve got a theory, and my theory is, we’ve been apart for nigh six weeks, and therefore, given the percentage of each day prior to that which we spent in this type of _practical activity_ , it’s going to take at least, ummm…” It’s very hard to do arithmetic with Shaftoe’s tongue in his ear, it really is. “Oh, say, conservatively, two sevens is fourteen, by six is oh Jack stop it, you bastard, you’re making me—don’t!—by six is… sixty and twenty-four which is eighty and—well, anyway, we could do this without surcease for three days and three nights and still not be caught up, so just stop it, you monstrous handsome fiend, and I promise, I promise, as soon as we’re back on the _Pearl_ , I’ll… we’ll…”

“All right,” says Shaftoe, grinning, and he rolls suddenly off Jack, off the bed, and begins to pull on his clothes. The balmy night air feels cold on Jack’s skin, compared to lovely hot Shaftoe-weight, and Jack, for all his insistence, is horribly bereft. He makes a moue, and Shaftoe widens his eyes at him. “Your idea, don’t blame me,” he says, and throws Jack his drawers. Jack sighs, and sits up. Yes. Getting out of here. Important. Must be done. Yes.

“So,” says Shaftoe, “Leaving. So you’ll turn back into Jane, and head off with the lads from the _Minerva_ , and where shall the boys and I meet you, and when?”

There, _that’s_ practicality; and it’s like a bucket of cold water over Jack’s head.

“I’m not leaving separate from you,” he says.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jane exists now, she has to go home. The boys and I’ll be fine. ‘Specially now that you’ve brought us armaments. We can be aboard the _Minerva_ before sun-up.”

“Nope,” says Jack.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Shaftoe, with a fierce scowl.

“Nope,” says Jack.

“It’s the obvious way, God dammit!”

“Not doing it.”

“Yes you bloody—”

Jack stops the words with a hand on Shaftoe’s mouth, and they glare at one another.

“I’m the fucking Captain,” says Jack, “and I’m not doing it. Understood, Mr Shaftoe?”

“What exactly _are_ you bloody doing, then?”

“I’m thinking about that as we speak.”

Still glaring. But Jack’s mostly doing that because it’s a good excuse to stare at Jack Shaftoe, looking all dishevelled and, well, _fucked_ , and he’d thought for a while that he’d never see that again, and it’s a fine, fine point on which to be proven wrong.

There’s the tiniest of whispery noises from the doorway, and one of Shaftoe’s black brows arches. He puts a finger to his lips, and takes two stealthy steps towards the door as he says, “Well, Jack, you’d better think about it, hadn’t you?” And then he wrenches the door open.

A squeaking heap of women sprawls and falls into the doorway. Two, three—no, _four_ of ‘em. Two of ‘em are too embarrassed to look up, but the other pair do, with cheeky smiles, and a giggle.

“How long have you been there?” cries Jack, and Shaftoe translates it, sternly, though Jack can see the quiver at the corners of his mouth. Not that it matters, really. A conversation in Sabir ensues, and frankly, it looks as though he and Shaftoe’re getting a bit of a telling-off.

“Are the ladies disgruntled by our… reunion?” says Jack.

“Oh, no,” says Shaftoe, “I’d say they were quite _enthralled_ by that, Jack. Indilla here advises me to put the key in the keyhole if I’d really prefer privacy.”

“Surely you jest, Mr Shaftoe!” Jack hadn’t thought he had it in him to blush, but they’re looking at him with such frank interest, it’s quite disconcerting.

“Not at all, these are _Malabari_ women, Jack. They found it most… educational, apparently. Anyway, they’re rather concerned that we appear to’ve begun to argue so soon after… well, so soon… _after_.”

“Well, let them judge the right and wrong of the argument, then,” says Jack. “Go on, Jack, tell ‘em the entire tale; ask _them_ whether I should skulk out of here without you.”

“It’s the only logical solution, anyone could see that,” persists Shaftoe, and Jack waves his hands at the pretty puddle of silk and skin on the floor, as if to say, _Go on then!_

Shaftoe starts gabbling. Jack smiles at the ladies, and looks at Shaftoe, and licks his lips, and grins, and winks, and rolls his eyes, and they giggle. Shaftoe spins round with a scowl, and Jack gives his most innocent look in return. Shaftoe obviously doesn’t know women all that well. The conclusion is reached with astonishing rapidity, and Indilla leaps to her feet, poking Shaftoe in the chest as she rails at him.

There’s really no call at all to say _I told you so_ , Jack tells himself.

*

Jack Shaftoe throws up his hands in disgust. “Fine, fine, they’ve decided in favour of your non-existent alternative plan,” he says. Bloody girls. He should’ve known Jack Sparrow could twist them round his little finger without even needing to open his mouth.

“The problem is, Indilla my dearest,” he says, “that we have to give Jane and Maria back to the boys, don’t we. Unless we stage a direct breakout from here; but your lovely sister would take her revenge on my other friends, then, who were so good as to bring Jack here to me, and I can’t have that.”

Indilla is smirking, he’s sure she is. “It’s all right, Jackshaftoe,” she says. “I have a plan for you.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well of course you do, because you’re obviously a mistress of escape, Indilla, having been locked up in here for most of your adult life.”

“You can be very rude, Jackshaftoe.”

He takes a deep breath. “Yes, Indy, I can; right now, I shall try not to be. I’m merely… curious as to your plan.”

“Well,” says Indilla, as if this much is totally obvious, “I shall be Jane, of course, and go with your sons to the ship. And then you can take me with you.”

Jack’s really not sure what to say to this. To stall for time, he tells Sparrow. But Sparrow’s no help; he laughs, and says it’s a wonderful plan, if only they can make Indilla as pretty as he was.

“But, Jack…” He wants to argue, and he also wants to say, _she’ll never look that good_ , but Indilla understands more English than he gives her credit for, and it’s probably not wise.

“Oh, go on, you know it’s a good plan. That false belly, and a scarf about her head, and she’ll be fine. Jimmy and Danny can whisk her straight to the palace gate and that’ll be that, and she doesn’t even have to stay aboard, we can dump her back later and she can say she was kidnapped or something.”

“I don’t think you’ll get rid of her that easy, mate.”

“Then she can come with us, the more the bloody merrier. In fact, I’d really like to pick up old Darius on the way, too.”

“How many slaves are you planning on emancipating this run, Jack?”

“Shut up. What’s the rest of her plan? She looks like she’s got more.”

Jack turns back to Indilla, and she’s biting at her bottom lip and bouncing on the balls of her feet, which is a rather distracting action from a bare-breasted girl, he has to admit. “Go on, then, what?” he asks her.

“Once,” says Indilla, “You told me that Jacksparrow could open any lock, did you not?”

“I did,” says Jack, hoping he hadn’t been exaggerating.

“I know a very big lock,” says Indilla. She’s smiling most wickedly.

“Which leads to…?” Jack prompts, with superhuman patience.

“Outside,” says Indilla.

*

Indilla’s the only woman in the room, apart from AnaMaria, who isn’t streaked with tears, and sporadically collapsing, sobbing, into the arms of another. All that makes Jack supremely uncomfortable; but Indilla’s so sparkingly excited, so bright-eyed and bossily determined, that he can’t feel bad about this idea from her viewpoint, at any rate. She couldn’t be more delighted, there under all those layers of silk and that great round felt belly, and she can’t keep the smile off her face as she lets Ana heat brass tongs in the brazier and dampen Indilla’s long hair, and curl it in some approximation of Sparrow’s.

“You’re going to have to keep that scarf down low over your head, and not look up; I mean it, Indilla," says Jack warningly.

“I know, Jack, I shall.”

“Give her your rings,” he says to Sparrow, and Indilla slips them on her thin fingers, and then mischievously flicks her hand, and they fly off, clattering on the tiles. Jack scrambles after them, and scowls at her.

“Indy! This isn’t a game! This is something that you’ll be killed for, if you’re found; understand that, will you?”

“Sorry,” says Indilla, though she pulls a face at the unfamiliar taste of the word, and clearly isn’t in the slightest.

Sparrow, wearing one of Jack’s shirts now, puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder and leans against him from behind. “Ask ‘em where this lock is,” he mutters. “Don’t think I’m needed for all this prettification, Jack.”

“Alright,” says Jack, who’s been thinking much the same thing, and he asks Indilla, who gabbles at her sisters. Lalli stands, and makes a valiant effort to wipe her eyes, before dissolving into tears again. Indilla makes shushing noises, and strokes her sister’s arm lovingly, and then pushes her forward and says, “Lalli will take you. But, Jack, if you open the lock… do not open the door. Not yet. Not until you leave.”

“Why?” says Jack, with deepest suspicion flaring in his chest.

“The lock,” says Indilla, “keeps things out, as well as keeping things in.”

“What things?” says Jack, with admirable calm.

Indilla shrugs, and Ana growls at her, and demands to know whether she actually _wants_ be set alight? “We don’t know,” she says, “but we hear noises, sometimes; and it smells bad. And my sisters are afraid of that place. So don’t leave it unlocked.”

“So how do you know it goes outside? Where outside, exactly?”

“We don’t know,” says Indilla unhelpfully. “But when the great floods came, it flooded from that door; so it leads to water.” And then, more guardedly: “It might be near the old Temple of Petsuchos.”

“Jack?” queries Sparrow, bouncing inquisitively behind him. “What’s all that about?”

“I’m not sure,” says Jack. “But it don’t sound ideal.”

They follow Lalli. Holding a lantern high in front of her, she leads them down long narrow corridors and steps, down to the deepest parts of this wing, where cold air swirls heavy with smells of waste and decay. The further they go, the closer she moves to Jack; by the time they approach the final set of steps, leading down to a flag-stoned dead end, she has grabbed at his hand and is breathing fast. She really doesn’t like it down here.

It does, indeed, smell bad; and yet, certainly not bad in an _unfamiliar_ way.

“Wonderful,” says Sparrow. “We’re leaving via the sewers.”

“You don’t have to,” says Jack. “You can walk out the front door, remember?”

“Sewers it is,” says Sparrow, and he slaps Jack gently on the behind, as if to remind him why he’s there, and chooses to be there.

“What d’you think of the lock?”

Indilla wasn’t exaggerating; it is a _big_ lock. Most metalwork around the palace is beautifully crafted stuff, engraved ornately, polished to luminescence, but this, despite its impressive proportions, is just an old lump of rusted iron with a great gaping keyhole. Sparrow puts his lantern down on the floor, squats cross-legged in front of it, and lays out the implements (knives, skewers, hairpins, and a lone fork) that he’s collected from the Princesses.

He turns round to Jack and Lalli, the perfect picture of a grinning thief. If thieves typically had the face of a naughty angel, and velvet ribbons about their throats. “This might take a while,” he says; “You might want to go back up, for when the boys arrive.”

Jack acknowledges the sense of this with a nod; then thinks to add, “Oh, and Jack, when you get the lock off, don’t open the door yet, eh? Just leave the lock in place?”

“You think I’m overly keen to go down there, mate?”

“Just saying,” shrugs Jack, who fears that if he presses the matter he will set off Jack Sparrow’s insatiable curiosity, and create a situation in which he is guaranteed to return to an empty corridor, and an open door, and no sign of his love.

“Go on, get,” says Sparrow, waving a dismissive hand and taking up a skewer; and Jack does as he’s bid, smiling to see Sparrow’s tongue caught between his teeth as he frowns at the lock with determined concentration.

*

It’s not long after that the boys return; at the first summoning rap of the guard’s pike on the door, the Princesses dissolve into fresh flurries of tears and dismay, and Jack has to physically extract Indilla from the soggy clutches of her siblings.

“Have you got the swords for Jimmy and Danny?” he demands of Ana, and she hikes up her skirts, and there they are, strapped to her thighs; he almost asks why in hell they didn’t just bring ‘em in like that, before realising that she can’t sit without revealing them, and couldn’t kneel into any sort of proper curtsy. And once she’s given these to the boys, she’ll be unarmed herself. Jack suddenly realises just what risks this woman’s running for him, and how little he’s acknowledged it.

“Ana,” he says, “I thank you for this, more than you know.”

“Haven’t gotten out of here yet,” she says, shrugging.

“I’ll thank you for success later,” says Jack with a grin. “Right now, I’m thankin’ you for trying.”

She shakes her head, and then looks at him as if wondering whether to tell him something. “What?” says Jack.

“He was half himself, without you,” she says eventually. “I like you, Jack Shaftoe, but I ain’t here for you. I’m here for him.”

It’s the nicest insult Jack’s ever received.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s deliver these ladies to their escort.”

The guard’s only been on duty an hour or so; he’s never seen Sparrow, and barely ever caught a glimpse of Indilla through carved shutters, but still, it’s a little nerve-wracking. Indilla does as she’s been told, clutching at her belly and leaning into Ana for support, and Ana shields her protectively.

But Jimmy and Danny are another matter. As soon as the women pass through the door, and the guard’s pike comes down again, barring Jack, their blue eyes widen briefly, before they calmly mask their surprise.

“Here you go, boys,” says Jack. “The ladies are all ready to go back to the ship.”

“We’re supposed to take them back to the banquet hall,” says Jimmy, fidgeting a little.

“I don’t think Jane’s well enough,” says Jack. “In fact I think she might be on the verge of dropping that little package of hers. P’rhaps one of you could run ahead, and get Moseh, and then they can all get back to the _Minerva_ , eh?”

“Right-o,” says Danny, staring at his dad as though he’d like to ask about a thousand questions, which, of course, he can’t. “Anything else?”

Jack gives him an innocent look. “Everything else is fine, Danny; just ask Maria.”

“Orlright, then, we’ll do that. We’ll see you… some other time.”

“Aye, see you, boys; take care, eh?”

Both boys roll their eyes whitely in the moonlight, and Jack grins, and closes the door.

*

The lock’s old, and it’s damp down here, so its mechanism is horridly rusted; Jack swears colourfully as he works, muttering to his little metal opponent, threatening it with horrid retributions if it won’t concede. He discards the knife, and switches to a skewer; holds the lock gently in his palm as he picks away, feeling the vibrations and clicks. He closes his eyes; sometimes, it’s easier to feel what needs to be done when there’s no visual interference, no false assumptive messages being fed to your brain.

Just like he’d closed his eyes, not two hours since, as Jack Shaftoe took him from behind, wrapping his muscled forearm round Jack’s hips and pulling him close; mmm, Jack can still feel the burn of it, and he shifts on the cold flagstones, breathing deep. Lock. Lock. Concentrate. But ah, Shaftoe’s forearm, it’s a gorgeous thing, and twice as sweet when Jack’s eyes are closed. Jack’s fingertips recall the soft hair, the flat hard plane of wrist broken by that deliciously rounded wristbone; the shift of muscle as Shaftoe’s hand caresses Jack’s skin; oh, best of all, the ludicrous silkiness of the skin on that arm’s underside, and the firm fat veins that snake across it, like ropy symbols of all Jack Shaftoe’s life and strength and vitality. Jack chews at his bottom lip, the thought of those veins making him swell warmly.

Lock! _Lock!_ Concentrate! He opens his eyes again, clearly unable to be trusted, just yet, with them closed.

Five minutes later, the skewer snaps in half, and Jack shouts irritably (it echoes, loudly, up the corridor) and gives the padlock an enraged yank; it snaps, obligingly, open.

“Oh,” says Jack, firstly deeply surprised, and secondly relieved that no-one was around to see that. He slips the lock off, and stands, and pushes the door open.

“Jesus,” he mutters, as a thick miasma eddies through the crack. That’s _disgusting_. He’s having a second thought about that whole Jane idea.

The revolting nature of the smell reminds him of Shaftoe’s injunction not to open the door.

Shaftoe’s injunction not to open the door makes him _want_ to open the door, even though it smells revolting. But Jack does, very occasionally, learn a lesson. And in the last two months, he’s learnt not to scoff at Jack Shaftoe’s concerns.

So, in the spirit of acknowledging the validity of other people’s opinions, he only opens it a very _little_ way.


	16. impofperversity | Malabar Trade, Chapter Sixteen

  


The smell has become worse, Jack’s sure of it, and so are the remaining Princesses; without his translator, he isn’t entirely sure what it is that they’re saying, but it doesn’t sound happy. Happy isn’t exactly their state of mind, any road, having seen off Indilla, and being about to bid him a fond farewell by way of tossing him into a sewer.

This latter undertaking should be worth a good deal of kissing goodbye, however, and that’s bound to lead to a reasonable amount of jealousy on Jack Sparrow’s part, and _that_ is surely worth arousing. Perched on Jack’s shoulder, the Imp notes in a shivery giggly hiss that every part of Jack Sparrow is worth arousing; _every part and every scrumptious one my love, you’d happ’ly ‘rouse that black and wicked eyeflash woun’t you eh, and next to see, ecstasy, heehee o glee that way his mouth’ll open up all plump and red, and the thumping jumping bloodpipe there in his neck, and—_

Jack stops short, and the Princesses pile up behind him, and one of them lets out a shriek. The Imp dissipates in a cloud of anxiety.

The door’s open. The fucking _door’s open_.

The lock’s lying on the ground, and a filthy stench is emanating from the blackness beyond. And there’s no sign of Jack Sparrow or his insatiable bloody curiosity.

Foreboding isn’t really the word for what’s crawling across Jack’s skin right at this moment.

The Princesses are gabbling at him, soft hands patting him and stroking him, lips being bitten, brows all furrowed as they shoot glances at the doorway, but in Sparrow’s conspicuous absence there’s no call for Induction of Jealousy; Jack meekly accepts this as their goodbye, and in a flurry of silk and widened eyes, they’re back up at the top of the steps, clutching one another, and waving him forward. This place makes those girls seriously nervous.

Jack tries hard not to be caught up in their hysteria. He’s seen them react similarly to perfectly innocent spiders, for Christ’s sake. Probably just not keen on the smell.

He holds his torch high, and unsheathes one of the short swords that Sparrow brought with him. No harm in being prepared. He pushes on the door, and it creaks, groans inwards, wafting out a noisome reek of shit and decay.

“Jack?” he calls. No answer.

He steps through the door, and pushes it closed behind him. (There’s a scurry of feet in the passageway, and he hears the lock clicking back into place. Well, that’s that, then.)

He lifts the torch, and warm flickers of light slide across the great stone slabs that make up the arched tunnel. His booted feet are in water already, over his ankles, and every step forward takes him deeper. Best not to look too hard at that… liquid; just keep calling it water, eh, Jack. That’ll suffice. The… water’s flowing off to his left, and he takes a few steps that way, still calling. He thinks he can maybe see a light, rounding a corner not far ahead. There’s a splashing sound.

“Jack? Jack Sparrow, is that you?”

“Jack! Mate, it’s good to hear your voice. And yet… well, you mightn’t want to come up this way,” says a slightly quavery voice.

Jack, naturally, ignores this suggestion and instead starts running; turns the corner, and is greeted by the unwelcome sight of Jack Sparrow, plastered against the slimy-dark wall, perching on a ledge not six inches out of the water; holding up a lantern which illuminates two glistening slits of yellow light in the water below him.

“What did I tell you?” demands Jack. “One, place infested with crocodiles. Two, don’t open the door. I should fucking leave you to be eaten.”

“That’s your prerogative, I s’pose,” says Sparrow, unrepentant.

“Don’t make any sudden moves, eh?” Jack’s blood is racketing around his body, he’s gone into that strange combat mode in which time seems to dribble by slowly enough to give you the opportunity to see everything around you. He can see the blunt snout of the thing edging out of the water only a few feet from Jack Sparrow. He can see the eddies of ( _water, Jack_ ) being pushed about by its slowly sweeping tail; it’s about eight feet long.

“It’s not a big one,” he calls encouragingly. The crocodile starts to turn to the sound of his voice; to glide towards him.

Jack thinks back to his last encounter with crocodiles. How did he kill them, then?

Well, he didn’t, as such; merely evaded them for long enough to get them in range of the Queen’s heavily armed guard. And that evasion, if he remembers rightly, cost him several chickens, a number of wooden stakes, and every stitch of clothing. Ah, those stakes; he almost smiles in recall. Snapped ‘em like kindling, they did. Thought he could jam those jaws open, but—

Aha!

“Jack,” he enquires, “D’you think you might be able to distract it, just for a moment, while I sort out some weaponry?”

“I’m sure I can; till you turned up, it found me entirely mesmerising. Here, crocky-crocky-crocky,” sings Sparrow, obligingly, and he dips a toe in the water. The great creature lunges back, and Sparrow leaps a foot, nearly losing his balance on the slippery ledge.

“I said _distract it_ , not _offer yourself for human sacrifice_ ,” says Jack, as he tucks the torch under his armpit to free up both hands, and disassembles the two swords. The hilts, he tucks back into his swordbelt. He squints at the joint mechanisms again; and yes, it’s as he remembered, they were identical in each part. He joins the two blades together. They don’t wish to mate, at first, and he starts to sweat; but then with a judicious application of pressure, and a bit of wiggling about, they click and snick and there he has it, a vicious two-pointed steel bar that thickens slightly in the middle, then flattens out to razor sharp blades. He wishes he had either time or material to bind the middle of it, but he indubitably doesn’t; it will cut him, but that’s not important.

He offers up a quick prayer to anything that might perhaps be paying attention (and—even more unlikely—might a) give a damn and b) be able to influence matters in any way, shape or form) that William Turner is as good a smith as Jack Sparrow fondly insists he is, and then stamps and splashes his way towards the crocodile. It turns rapidly, and starts waddling, running, swimming towards him, and he hastens to the shallower water at the side of the rounded tunnel; needs it to be out of the water when it—

“Get out of the way!” Sparrow’s shouting, and he’s running after it, running up towards Jack, splashing through the foetid river of… _water_. But Jack stands his ground, crouched and ready, holding his torch up high, heart slamming and leaping as the great beast comes rampaging t’ward him, and there, it surges up and out of the water and opens its great toothy jaws and Jack gives a yell of horror and shoves his arm in there as far as it’ll go.

He thrusts the bottom end of his improvised stake down through the creature’s lower jaw, and it lurches and thrashes and tries to snap its jaw shut. Mistake! Oh, big mistake. The moment he feels the top blade sinking into flesh, Jack whips out his arm, and not a second too soon, as the teeth all but meet. But never quite make contact, as the crocodile’s miniscule brain finally calculates that the closure of its jaw and the surprising agony it’s currently suffering are inextricably linked; have, in fact, a cause-and-effect type of relationship.

The creature’s thrashing, but effectively skewered; Jack thrusts his torch at its eyes, and it rears back, enraged and half blinded. He looks up at Sparrow, now back up against the far wall of the tunnel, holding his lantern.

“I think now is a good sort of a time to run,” suggests Jack.

*

The sounds of thrashing, blinded reptile are fading behind them, and Jack Sparrow slows to a rapid slosh. The smell is not improving as they get deeper into the tunnels, but they do seem to be sloping downhill; the river of sewage is flowing more rapidly, up around their knees. They’re covered in it, anyway, from running. He wonders if anyone’s ever going to be able to bear being in an enclosed space with him ever again.

“Are you sure Indilla was fond of you?” he grumbles to Shaftoe, ahead of him. “I must say, this is an odd going-away present, this is.”

“’Twas this or several hundred armed Nayars,” says Shaftoe equably. He turns and waits for Jack to catch him up, and Jack can see the breadth of his grin, flickering in the torchlight. “I admit, it’s wrecked your hair-do, though, mate.”

“Shut up,” says Jack fondly.

“I think you quite enjoyed being all prettied up.”

“Hah! Hardly. The things I do for you, Jack Shaftoe, are quite astounding,” says Jack archly. He’s only teasing; but Shaftoe looks back at him with something rare, a sincerity and gratitude, and says, “It _is_ astounding, that you came; I b’lieved you would, I truly did, but I couldn’t see how.”

“Ah, you’d’ve done the same. I mean, look what got you here in the first place; look what you did, to get me my _Pearl_ back. That, my friend, is something I’ll never be able to adequately repay you for.”

“Well, it’s Jimmy and Danny that you’ll need to pay back on that score, trust me. What d’you think here? Left or right?”

“Right, seems more downhill to me. What d’you mean, about the boys?”

Shaftoe explains it to him, and Jack blanches. Bloody Kottakkal. He has a brief thought that it’s a bit of a pity to be doing this the stealthy way; it’d be a sight more satisfying to give that woman the comeuppance she deserves, to her face.

“So how’d you convince Otto van Hoek to play the game? Last I recall he was cursing us both to high heaven as foul and unnatural, not to mention unacceptably piratical.”

Jack grins. Van Hoek’d been a challenge, that was true. But the rest of that cabal would do anything for Jack Shaftoe; they’d argued him round on Jack’s behalf. Besides which, Jack’d appealed to the man’s baser instincts.

“Afraid we ain’t got much wootz left,” he says.

“Filthy fucking Dutchman!” cries Shaftoe irritably.

“Shush,” says Jack, fighting a giggle. “Let’s not wake up any more crocodiles, eh?”

“All right, all right. So, where’s the _Pearl_ , now?”

“Waiting round past Cape Comorin. We just need to meet up with Turner and Gibbs, down at the river; they’ve a fishing boat that’ll get us that far.”

“What about the _Minerva_?”

“Aye, she’ll meet us there, and we can pick up Ana; and, I suppose, Indilla. I din’t want to rely on your boys for getting us out, though; couldn’t ask ‘em to risk more’n they had already, getting me in here.”

“That’s true, an’ I—Jack! Ain’t that something, up there? Ain’t that…?”

It is; it’s moonlight, and even better than that, it’s something approaching fresh air. Jack’s fairly certain that, if he’d reached this particular location from the other direction, he’d consider it the most disgusting fug he’d ever sucked into his lungs; as it is, however, he draws it in and savours it as if it’s the sweetest mountain breeze. They splash out of the tunnel, which debouches into a sewage canal, and Shaftoe extinguishes his torch, and Jack his lantern, in the canal before they clamber up its side. To their left is a large, stone tabernacle, roofless and crumbling; the temple of Petsuchos, where they’re supposed to meet the boys.

They’re outside the walls of the palace, down on the outskirts of the town, and it feels tremulously close to freedom. Specially since no-one’s even looking for them. Jack climbs the mossy, cracked stone steps of the temple, and hunkers down inside, in a dark corner. He closes his eyes for a minute, and listens to Shaftoe’s approaching footsteps, and laughs, because he’d know by the smell that Shaftoe was approaching, no matter how quiet he might be trying to be.

“You, mate, are _foetid_ ,” he says.

Shaftoe doesn’t bother with the obvious rejoinder. He sits beside Jack, close enough that their shoulders touch, and (with a little judicious wriggling on Jack’s part) their hips, too. Jack presses into him. Feels complete, again, with Jack Shaftoe at his side, in a way that he can’t explain.

“So now we wait; which normally I ain’t too fond of, but right now, it’s good,” mutters Shaftoe, low into Jack’s ear, “So good to have you back with me, Jack Sparrow.”

“Ditto,” says Jack, and he smiles round at Shaftoe in the moonlight. With his chin still all smooth, Shaftoe’s all square-jawed and handsome and sharply shadowed, looking far younger than he ought; and yet, if you look hard (and Jack does) you can see those deep lines of laughter at the corners of his eyes, his mouth. They suit him; make him _more_. Jack licks his lips.

“I’m considering,” he tells Shaftoe, “whether the unutterable pleasure of kissing you will manage to outweigh the disgusting way you currently smell.”

“Never know, till you try,” says Shaftoe.

Which is undeniable; so Jack does just that. Puts a hand on Shaftoe’s warm neck, brings him close; close enough that their lips, just barely, brush together. He tries to stifle the surge of laughter at the absolute reek of the two of them, and would have managed it, he’s sure, were it not for the tiny tremor of amusement that he feels running through Shaftoe; and that’s it, Jack’s giggling unstoppably, and Shaftoe too.

“Jaysus, you’re foul,” says Shaftoe.

“Fair enough, we’ve an answer to my question, then.”

“It ain’t that I don’t—”

“I know it, Jack, I—”

Shaftoe lets out another bark of laughter and pushes Jack down, taking him by surprise; rolls his delicious weight on top of Jack, and kisses him anyway. And yes, he stinks, they both do, and their boots and trousers are covered in unspeakable muck, and yet, the moment Shaftoe’s tongue demands entry to Jack’s mouth, the moment he grants it, he just doesn’t care any more. He wraps his arms around Shaftoe, pulls him close, and Shaftoe grinds against him deliciously.

This is not a good idea, oh no, not at all; they’re still in the middle of Malabar! Unarmed! Too foul-smelling to hide anywhere! And yet, yet, yet… the sweet transport of Jack Shaftoe’s desire is irresistible, and Jack’s missed him too, too badly to try resisting it anyway. He throws a leg around Shaftoe, rolls around so he can press into Shaftoe that self-same way, it’s so so divine; and Shaftoe grunts into Jack’s open mouth, widens his jaw, all wet and biting in a way that sends shivers all the way through Jack, down to the furthest outreach of every extremity he has.

“How long d’you think it’s going to take,” he mutters, “afore we’re all caught up, Jack, and can look at one another without bein’ so desperate to fuck that we even consider it in the middle of Malabar, all covered in shit?”

“Well,” says Jack Shaftoe, panting (even that’s bloody glorious, all hot gusting breath and heaving ribcage ‘neath Jack), “I felt that way for the first twenty years, and it didn’t reduce noticeably in that time. So it might be a while.”

“No hope for us, then,” says Jack happily.

“None,” Shaftoe says into his neck, and bites him, and at the same time slides a hand into Jack’s drawers, palm hot on the skin of Jack’s behind. Jack arches up, giving his mouth access, wanting it all over his neck, oh god all over, and he opens his eyes and—

The Shaftoe boys are standing over them, arms crossed, scowling most fearsomely.

“Are you fookin’ insane?” demands Danny. Jack Shaftoe’s head cranes back at the sound of his son’s voice, and he (the brute!) wrenches his hand out of Jack’s nether garments.

“And you _stink_ ,” adds Jimmy.

“Hello,” says a third voice, and Jack sees, behind them, the shadowy figure of Darius.

“Hello,” he says, smiling as if it’s perfectly normal for two fellows to be rolling around the mossy floors of abandoned temples in the middle of the night, covered in nightsoil, with their hands down each other’s trousers. Still, probably a good idea to stand up at this point, so he does, and offers Shaftoe a hand up too.

“Right,” he says, dusting himself off and trying to appear Leaderly. “Excellent. All present and correct, eh?”

“Come on,” says Danny, and the three of them go rapidly down the steps.

“What’s the rush?” says Jack; and then he notices a dark stain on the back of Danny’s shirt. Shaftoe must see it at the same time; he runs down the steps in threes, and demands to know what’s happened.

“She set two Nayars to watch us,” says Jimmy. “We thought we’d lost ‘em; but one of ‘em shot Danny in the shoulder.”

“Are they still—“ says Jack, glancing behind him, but doesn’t get to finish his sentence. “No,” says Danny. “No, they are not. But they ain’t too well hid, and if anyone finds ‘em, we’ll have the whole fookin’ palace on our tail. So, where are Will and Gibbs waitin’, Jack?”

They plunge into the maze of alleyways that passes for the streets of Malabar. All Jack knows is that Turner and Gibbs are going to have the fishing boat drawn up on the riverbank, east of the town, which means that they need to head down to the river, and bear left. Jimmy has an arm about his brother’s waist, and when Jack looks at Danny’s face, he can see the lock of jaw that says he’s in considerable pain; but now’s not the time to ask. He’s still moving, that’s the important thing.

The streets are dark, and all but deserted. They go quiet and fast, and Jack keeps an ear out for sounds of pursuit, or of alarm up at the palace, but there are none. None, nothing. When they get to the riverbank, Jimmy points downstream; and there, in the wide rivermouth, they can see the _Minerva_ , bristly with sweeps, sails raised though there’s but little wind to catch ‘em. She’s away.

“Good,” says Shaftoe under his breath, and they turn their backs to this cheering sight, and carry on along the muddy strand. There are any number of small boats pulled up onto the riverbank, and twice as many moored out in the river, but they’re all dark and still. So dark and still that it’s a fright, enough to make Jack’s heart leap up into his mouth, when a black and shadowy figure suddenly stands up on the riverbank.

“Lord ha’ mercy,” says Joshamee Gibbs, putting a hand to his offended nostrils. “That is the wickedest stench I’ve encountered for a very long time.”


	17. Chapter 17

From out here in the middle of the river, Malabar’s beautiful. All the dirty, tumbledown hovels and alleys are nothing more than a dark and indistinct ribbon behind the waterfront; the moon shines down bright on the palace, high up on the cliff. Jack Shaftoe can’t stop watching. Can’t turn his back on it, for fear of what might, just might, be happening there. It’s so easy to imagine torches suddenly flaring into life all through the palace, tiny pinpricks of panicked light; a sudden crash of cannonfire. ‘Tis Jimmy and Danny who’ll be missed first.

Danny’s in the bow of the narrow fishing boat, and Will Turner’s fussing over his shoulder wound.

“It ain’t deep,” Danny’s saying dismissively, and Jimmy’s adding, “Bounced off ‘is shoulder blade, Will; t’aint much more’n a scratch.”

“It’s a _bit_ more’n a scratch,” disputes Danny, seeing potential sympathy dissolving in the sea-breeze, and Will Turner laughs, and leans in to whisper something in Danny’s ear. Danny’s arm snakes around him, and Jack turns away, giving them some peace, some space.

Not that there’s a lot of space to give, this single-masted fishing boat being no more than thirty foot from stem to stern. It’s reasonably fleet, though; Gibbs has piled on sail, and though the _Minerva_ ’ll reach the _Pearl_ far ahead of them, they should be there by morning. And once the _Pearl_ ’s underway, there ain’t a lot of chance of the Malabaris chasing ‘em down – as long as they get a head start, of course, and aren’t followed till the morrow.

“Jimmy!” Jack calls, “When’s the Evil Bitch Queen likely to miss you two?”

“Pretty fookin’ soon,” smirks his son. “She’s become fairly accustomed to our attentions; we ain’t easily replaceable, you know.”

“I meant – as you well know – when’s she likely to _note your absence_ , not _lack your presence_. Was she expecting you tonight?”

“Nah; Danny faked an attack of the flux, I told her it’d probably bin all them rich foods she’d laid on for the Princes, and that I wasn’t feelin’ too fine neither. She won’t call for us tonight.”

“Nice thinking,” says Jack Sparrow, coming up beside Jack where he sits on the aft thwart, across from Gibbs on the tiller.

“Jaysus,” grumbles that good man, “One of ye was bad enough, but the smell of two of ye’s unpardonable. Can’t you wash some o’ that shite off?”

“When we’re out of the rivermouth,” says Jack. “I’ve already fought off one crocodile tonight, I’m not keen on fishing for another with my fingers as bait.”

Danny breaks off his reunion kiss and cries, “Are you still on with all that crocodile malarkey, you mad bastard?”

“Oi!” snaps Sparrow. “Your father saved me from certain death in the jaws of a bloody great crocodile not two hours since, so I’ll hear no more of that, Daniel Shaftoe.”

“Really?” says Will, eyes wide (though that expression might be less an indicator of his interest in the crocodile escapade than it is a consequence of Jimmy’s wide and hungry mouth upon his neck).

“Thanks to you, mate,” Jack tells him, trying not to look too smug about Jack Sparrow’s admiration. He pulls the two bladeless hilts from his belt and tosses them down with a clatter. “Nice design. Made a great skewer, those two blades did.”

Will squirms away from Jimmy, laughing, a wide sunny smile coming over his handsome face. “I knew that would be a useful thing! I’m so happy that you thought of it, Jack!”

Jack grins back at him; the boy’s not so bad, really, once you get used to him. And he certainly seems pleased to see Jimmy and Danny again. Jack’s got no idea how that triangular thing they’ve got going works, and he’s faintly impressed at Will Turner for being able to manage both of his sons at once—God knows either one of ‘em can be quite a handful—but one way or another, he can’t argue with the obvious joy with which they greeted one another, the way the sight of Turner wiped all the pain off Danny’s face, and made Jimmy glow with happiness.

“And, boys,” says Sparrow (whose arm has worked its way round behind Jack; his hand, up inside Jack’s shirt, is a warm pledge of glory to come, and the subtle motions of his long fingers on Jack’s skin won’t let Jack forget any, any of the things that Jack Sparrow’s promised him): “Boys, I’m heartened to see that for once you followed your captain’s orders, and picked up Darius on your way out.”

Darius raises an eyebrow, and glances back at Jimmy and Danny, who laugh. “All right, Darius, so it weren’t entirely our idea,” Jimmy admits. “We still did all the hard work, din’t we?”

“We can drop you in Madagascar, or at the Cape, as you please,” Sparrow tells the linguist. “You’re a free man, now, mate.”

“Free,” says Danny, and smirks over at his brother. “We can all appreciate that, Jack.”

Jack Sparrow grins all glinty in the moonlight. “I hear you’ve reason to. We owe you a debt of gratitude, I know; ‘twas your sacrifice as won us our ship back, an’ we won’t forget it in a hurry.”

Jack shakes his head as the boys try to look bashful, and doesn’t bring up the fact that he had to use threats of bodily violence to get them up to the palace in the first place; it doesn’t seem necessary, though it’s undeniably tempting. He’ll tell Sparrow later, perhaps. ‘Sides which, this way the boys’ll owe him for keeping his mouth shut.

The wind rises as they tack out to sea, and the land falls away to port. The breeze is cooler out here, and Darius pulls his cape around him as he curls up at the foot of the mast. Gibbs has taken all responsibility for sailing duties, and left Turner to his reconciliation, which is continuing in hushed tones and low laughter and a knotty huddle of arms and legs up in the bow.

“Are we far enough out to risk immersion yet, Jack?” asks Sparrow, with a nudge of his knee. “I think we’re overdue for some basic housekeeping, here.”

Jack grins, mostly at the thought that ‘basic housekeeping’, in this particular instance, is going to involve Jack Sparrow removing his trousers; such a pity that the circumstances don’t allow him to act on the opportunity. He acquiesces, and they pull off their stenchful boots, leaning over the transom and washing them as best they can.

“Don’t think they’ll ever be the same,” says Sparrow regretfully.

“What do you care? They were mine anyway,” says Jack. “Present, they were. From the Malabari Royal Family, don’t ye know.”

“Were those trousers a present, an’ all?” enquires Sparrow with a sly grin.

“Aye,” says Jack, and stands, and drops ‘em.

“Ah, for the love of God!” comes a complaint from for’ard.

“Cleanliness,” calls Sparrow cheerfully, “is next to Godliness, boys.” And he does the same.

Jack licks his lips, and grins.

“Just bloody wash ‘em,” growls Gibbs.

“Godliness, my arse,” whispers Jack into Sparrow’s ear, “I’ve seldom felt less Godly in my entire wicked life, mate.” He punctuates the end of his sentence with a swipe of tongue, and Sparrow growls and laughs somehow both together, down deep in his throat.

*

They spot the _Black Pearl_ and the _Minerva_ as the sun comes up over the Western Ghats, and are alongside less than an hour later. One of _Minerva_ ’s gigs is alongside the _Pearl_ , and AnaMaria, Indilla, Moseh, Dappa and Gabriel are leaning over the bulwarks, amidst the rest of Jack’s crew.

They abandon the fishing boat to the current and swim across, to be greeted by a wonderful round of welcoming embraces, back-slapping, admiration, et cetera; you’d never know, truly, that this company had been so bloody dead set against going back for the Shaftoes in the first place. Brilliant liars, they are. Jack’s all paternally proud to see it.

The Shaftoes are soon huddled with their friends from the _Minerva_ ; Indilla and Darius stand, unsure, looking around their new home. Looking, more likely, at their new companions, who (Jack must admit to himself) aren’t necessarily the most prepossessing selection of humanity to find yourself unexpectedly adrift with.

“Listen up!” he bellows, and all heads turn his way. “We’ve two guests, and they’re honoured guests at that; this fellow here’s named Darius, and I’d not have been able to get to Jack Shaftoe without him; did they tell you, eh, that Jack’s been locked up in a hareem, all this time?” Howls of laughter at the irony of this, and Shaftoe’s got the grace to laugh with ‘em. “Anyway, Darius here gained us entry; and this lovely lady” (he gives Indilla a deep sweeping bow) “is in fact the sister of the Queen. She’s royalty, lads; and she’ll be treated as such, you hear me? She ain’t to be bothered. She’ll be sharing with Ana, till further notice.”

“Is she a hostage, then, Jack?” says Stone, confused.

“No, man! Princess Indilla, why, she masterminded our escape, din’t she!”

Darius is whispering to Indilla, and she laughs at this, and curtsies as several of the men cheer her.

“So, is she a passenger?” persists Stone, to whom the world is a dangerously confusing thing when it’s not carefully compartmentalised into the readily understood.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Jack, losing interest. “She is what she is. But while she’s aboard she’ll also be _safe_ , or you’ll be _dead_ , savvy?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, Jack,” says Ana, giving her shipmates one of her special glares; and once she’s said that, Jack instantly obeys and ceases all concern, because no-one who’s known AnaMaria more than a day or two is going to cross _her_.

Moseh de la Cruz approaches, and Jack takes his hand, cordial and grateful.

“My eternal gratitude, Moseh, for all you’ve done for us,” he says.

Moseh smiles. “Your eternal gratitude, _and_ a queen’s ransom in wootz, which Captain van Hoek has already transferred to our ship. But you’re welcome, nonetheless. And I sincerely hope that, should I take a wife in the future, she will have the great fortune to be as beauteous as my last.”

Jack laughs, and curtsies mockingly. Shaftoe cuffs Moseh and says, “Lay off, you silvertongued rogue; mine.” He puts an arm about Jack’s shoulders, and the clammy cold of Jack’s shirt and trousers doesn’t even penetrate his awareness anymore, not with that gorgeous, possessive warmth lying heavy on him.

“We should leave,” says Goto, with a glance at his companions; Dappa nods. 

“We should all get underway, indeed,” says Jack, “before someone comes looking.”

He and Shaftoe, arm in arm and hips bumping, follow the Minervans to the sea-ladder. Shaftoe embraces his friends, wishes them luck with their Pacific crossing.

“Come look us up,” he says, “when you make the Caribbean.”

Shaftoe and Sparrow stand there together, watching the gig make its way across choppy seas; and the two great ships begin to haul anchor, to raise sail, and set their courses.

“Well,” says Jack Shaftoe over the chanteys of the capstan crew, “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. Very tired. Exceptionally tired.”

“Exhausted,” agrees Jack, with great gravity. Shaftoe gives him a wink, and Jack’s astounded to see the dimple, high in his cheek, appear as a result; ah, God, it’s a lovely face, that one. He can’t maintain that serious façade for a moment longer, but laughs out loud, and throws his arms around Jack Shaftoe, crushing him tight, all blazing full of happiness to have him here, and back, and home, and his.

*

They leave the bright sunshine of the deck, descend into the familiar murky gloom belowdecks. Jack Shaftoe’s never been much attached to any concept of _home_ ; but, oddly, this ship feels like it. No, that’s not it, he amends to himself; this ship and this _man, that’s_ what feels like home. There’s no room, down here, to walk side by side and arm in arm. Sparrow twists ahead, but Jack walks close behind him, his hands on his love’s hips, feeling the motion of his swaying walk through the damp fabric. He digs his fingers into the firm flesh beside the hipbones, and Sparrow deliberately tenses the muscle there, grinning over his shoulder. He’s turning fast back into himself, losing all that feminine pretence; his hair’s all snarled and tangly and damp, and there’s a faint shadow appearing on his top lip, on his chin, though his cheeks are still smooth. Jack’s all bristly, now. He hopes Sparrow won’t mind it. Thinks of his chin all rough on Jack Sparrow’s thighs… groans, and pulls Sparrow back against him. They have to walk in tandem, shuffling forward together, joined.

“Christ’s sake man, do you want to make it to the cabin, or not?” enquires Sparrow, with a taunting press of his arse against Jack.

“Don’t much care either way,” says Jack, “but I’d ‘magine it’s better for your Air of Authority not to be caught fucking in the passages.”

Sparrow twists from Jack’s grip, and pushes him back against the black wall, grinning evilly. “I’d say it could only be an enhancement to me reputation, actually, to have a witness to the way I’m going to make you howl, Mr Shaftoe.” He grinds against Jack in a way that liquefies something deep inside him, and makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Not completely exhausted, then,” Jack mutters.

“Oh, of course, I’d all but forgotten; you’re right, of course, I’m _far_ too weary for that sort of carry-on,” says Sparrow blithely, and saunters off down the passageway, disappearing down the stairs. Jack just stands there for a minute, breathing and grinning and enjoying the anticipation, before following him.

In the half-dark, Jack Sparrow’s pressed up against a low cabin door, and when he sees Jack he puts a long dirty finger to his lips, all twisty with mischief.

“Listen,” he mouths.

There’s no need to huddle against the door to hear it; Jack presses against Sparrow’s back, anyway, for the joy of it, and to let him feel the enthusiasm of Jack’s Credential. Inside, the boys have wasted no time in renewing their acquaintance with William Turner.

“…anything,” comes Turner’s muffled voice, low and heavy with want, barely audible over the breathy groan that he’s inducing in one of the Shaftoe brothers. “Anything.”

Sparrow beckons for Jack’s ear, and whispers into it, “He just said they’d been slaves long enough; so now he’ll be theirs; ain’t that adorable?” His hot breath wafts into Jack’s ear and seems to blow all the way down his spine, shivering every nerve he has on its way.

“They’re my _sons_ , Jack; I don’t want to know the details of it,” Jack manages to whisper back.

“Ain’t you curious?” comes the hot murmur again. “How they ‘rrange it? Eh?”

“We had a demonstration, remember?”

Sparrow giggles at the recall, and there’s sudden silence inside. “Quick!” Sparrow hisses, and pulls Jack down the corridor.

“You’re incorrigible,” says Jack, as soon as their door (oh, their beloved door; he’s never been so fond of an architectural element in his life) is shut behind them.

“That’s right,” says Sparrow happily, “and you love me for’t.”

Jack leans against the door, just for a moment, watching him, and it’s true; he loves Jack Sparrow for all that he is, every wicked, incorrigible, illogical, beautiful part of him. And oh, yes, beautiful it is, in the thin gold morning light that’s slanting in; in those damp and clinging clothes; with that light in his eyes, and the tongue that darts out to wet his lip, and as for that lip… 

Jack determines that that clammy shirt has no right to be obscuring Sparrow’s glorious skin from Jack’s sight, really it doesn’t (though the way it’s clinging to his musculature, outlining his nipples, makes its sins almost pardonable). “Take off your shirt, Jack,” he says. “Take it off, and—and I’ll… tell you something.”

Jack Sparrow loves games. Also, he’s capable of removing his clothing in a way that would make a grown man fall to his knees and weep, were that man not confident of being granted all those wicked favours which he will, inevitably, desire quite desperately by the time of said clothing’s hitting the floor. He doesn’t disappoint; turns his back on Jack, as though he’s merely looking through the window, and pulls the wet shirt up slowly, revealing all the muscles in his back, the line of his spine, and there finally, the bunched muscles of his shoulders. Draws it over his head; turns, his face still obscured by once-white linen, his belly hollowed by his raised arms, and pauses for a second, just to be seen thus, before shaking his head free (wet hair whips over his skin) and letting the shirt fall. 

Jack, his mouth slightly open, stares, and lets a happily foolish grin plaster his face.

“What’re you going to tell me, then? Eh?”

Jack gathers his wits, which have been scattered like the blown motes of a dandelion head. What was he going to say? His original plan had been to get the shirt off, and then see what fell out of his mouth; he pursues this course of action by dint of opening his lips further, and finds that a very obvious answer appears on cue. “That I love you, Jack Sparrow.”

“I had an inkling that you might,” says Sparrow, staring hard at Jack, and tracing a finger along his own collarbone, where a ruby flush of desire colours his golden skin. “B’lieve I’ve got that written down somewhere, in fact.”

“Take off your trousers,” says Jack, sliding a hand inside his own shirt and letting his fingers drift over his nipple (Sparrow’s eyes narrow, and he licks his lip again) “and I’ll tell you something else.”

This time Sparrow doesn’t turn or tease, but quickly loosens his trousers and holds his erection flat against his belly with one palm while the other hand pushes the garment away. He steps out of the trousers, but he doesn’t take his hand away. Strokes himself gently, and Jack can see the pulse of his abdomen, the pulse at the side of his neck. Can feel the matching thrum in his own throat, and it’s echoing all through his body, in his mouth, in his belly, in his prick, with a sweet rhythmic reminder of life, so unbearably erotic that he’s almost shaky with the desire to take those two strides and grab hold of Jack Sparrow.

“So, now I’ll tell you that you love me,” he manages to say, and can’t stop the smile as he says the words. “You love me, and you came for me, and there ain’t any damn thing in this world that can keep us apart.”

“Except…” says Sparrow, and he beckons Jack forward. Jack does as he’s bid, walks over to stand before that strong, lithe body.

“Except,” comes the wicked murmur, “the one, or rather, two things that’re keeping us apart right at this moment; being that very pretty weskit, and these less impressive trousers, both of which I think we should dispense with immediately.”

“Ain’t you going to concur with my statements, first?”

“Ain’t you going to take these damned clothes off?”

They’re grinning at one another, and Sparrow’s hands come up to push Jack’s vest off his shoulders; Jack grabs Sparrow by the wrists, and stops him. “Agree with me,” he demands, and Sparrow just laughs, and declares that he’s not going to profess love to any man who won’t take his trousers off when requested to do so, and they wrestle. Sparrow frees a hand, and twists Jack’s left arm behind his back and Jack gets a foot in behind Sparrow’s knee and pushes him back; they fall onto the bed, grappling and panting and laughing, now one on top, now the other, revelling in muscle and sinew and strength, till Jack stops it with a fierce kiss that makes Sparrow grunt into his mouth, that turns their wrestling into something quite other, into that hot sure carnal need that they’ve always engendered in one another. 

Sparrow pushes Jack’s vest off his shoulders, and Jack just lets him, because he’s temporarily forgotten that there might be anything, anything else in this world aside from the importance of getting his skin up against Jack Sparrow’s. He starts to unfasten his trousers, his hand scrabbling in the close space between them, but Sparrow stops him.

“’Fore you do that, Jack…” he says, and oh the warm spark in those eyes, just inches from Jack’s; “let me concur, as you requested; let me tell you that I do love you, just as you love me; and I don’t just love to fuck you, though Christ I do love that. But there’s so much more to it, Jack my love…” His words, his breath, his skin so warm that Jack’s adrift in hazy heat and an all-encompassing happiness. “There’s the way I love to look at you, to hear your voice, to know that you’re beside me. And I love to spend my days and nights with you, to see your face when I wake and feel your arms as I sleep. I love to watch you fight and hear you argue. I love you in a thousand ways I never thought to love; and I wrote it all down, but damn… the rats ate most of it.”

Jack Shaftoe smiles at this last, but otherwise cannot find any words; it’s so astounding, so strange and inexplicably wonderful, to be loved this way, and by _this_ man; oh, this man, the like of whom he’s never seen though he’s travelled the wide world over. He just smiles, and shakes his head, and smiles more. “What?” demands Sparrow, who was rather impressed with the sheer romanticism of this speech, end note aside, and finds this reception a little disappointing.

“Yes,” says Jack simply. “Yes, every one of those things; and let me show it to you, Jack, let me lie ‘gainst you…”

Jack wriggles out of his trousers, and stretches out alongside Sparrow, sighing with delight at the touch of skin on his own… chest on chest, mouth on mouth, arms pulling close, and there, oh yes, as his cock’s crushed against Sparrow’s own, tight between their bellies, and Jack hooks a leg over Sparrow’s hip in silent request. 

He thrusts against him, and the world doesn’t get much sweeter than this; than the motion of this ship running before the wind, and the clean warmth of Jack Sparrow’s bed, and the salty taste of his hair where it infiltrates their messy kiss; than the sound of Jack Sparrow humming and yearning; than the touch of his hands, readying Jack for what he wants, what he needs. He shudders and groans, and they can’t speak anymore; can’t speak, save with their hands and tongues and teeth, with the sweat-slide of their skin, with harsh exhalations and sucking gasps; with tangled limbs and wild eyes.

Can’t speak… and then Jack can’t breathe for a moment as Sparrow rolls Jack over onto his other side and covers his back with his sweet, hot self; covers him, and then ah, so gentle sure, is pushing inside him and _there_ , that’s it. There. They hold still for a long moment, as their worlds come complete, and Jack Shaftoe buries his face with his hands, not for shame nor sorrow but for fear of crying out in wonder as he welcomes Jack Sparrow into him. 

“Jack…” he says, and Sparrow’s murmuring the same, and fastening his mouth on Jack’s neck as he moves against him, writhing with unhurried grace against Jack’s scarred back; winding one strong arm round under Jack’s waist, reaching down to Jack’s cock with the other, stroking slow and sure and on and on as Jack cants his hips, wants more, wants all and everything.

“Tell me,” mutters Jack Sparrow, his voice so husky deep that Jack feels it vibrating down through their joined bodies; “tell me… that you’ll not leave me again.”

“Tell me,” says Jack Shaftoe, “that you’ll always follow me.” And he’s sure that Sparrow’s gasping cry is a _yes_ , and that’s what he whispers himself, as he quivers and spills in Sparrow’s grasping hand.

There is no sweeter pleasure in the world, there is no truer joy nor dearer soul; and though they will neither one let the other see it, Jack Sparrow’s dark eyes will brim silver, and Jack Shaftoe’s tear will slide and hide on his callused palm.

 

Finis


End file.
